Flower Garden

OSAD - A story of flowers

A woman lived in a small house in a small neighborhood. She was single, never married, very seldom ever dated. Everyone in that neighborhood knew each other well, except for her. Nobody really knew her at all. She always kept to herself, was always quiet, never did more than wave at the occasional passerby and utter a soft “Hello” as she went about her day.

It wasn’t a lack of going outside. Quite the opposite. The woman was always outside. She liked gardening. She was always outside during the spring, summer, and part of fall, dressed in pastels and wearing a sun hat and gardening gloves, digging around and planting new little seeds. Her yard was covered in a rainbow of bright colors, hundreds of little flowers poking their heads at the sun. 

Most of the time, if she wasn’t gardening, she’d still be outside. She often sat on the porch reading, or simply gazing at the sky. She only returned inside to work or cook. Even rainy days didn’t deter her. Her porch was covered, so she’d just sit on her chair on the porch and listen to the rain while she read, smiling as her flowers bloomed delicately in mother nature’s showers.

Neighbors often admired her garden from afar, but they tended not to come and visit. They always waved from the outside and continued walking. The woman wouldn’t have minded if they’d come in, but she simply let it go and didn’t pay it much mind. She wasn’t really one for socializing, or for friends. She’d always liked being alone.

She had a mother who visited on occasion. She didn’t understand why. Her mother was her opposite; she was loud and boisterous and simply didn’t understand the concept of gardening. Every visit, her feet would trample so many flowers. The woman never complained, even when her mother yapped on and on about how she should “get a husband” and “make something of her life.” She told her to stop planting all of those “worthless plants” and get out of the house. She asked if she’d made any friends. She asked if she’d found a job that actually involved her driving somewhere, rather than working from home. She stared at her daughter in frustration with every “No” she received.

It was a cycle that continued yearly. Every now and then, the neighbors would hear the mother screaming at the woman, wondering what such a quiet and simple soul could have done to earn such treatment. They also noticed, however, that the woman never cried, never said anything back, never even changed her expression. She acted completely collected, as if her mother wasn’t speaking at all.

When her mother died, she was this exact way. She didn’t cry at the funeral. She delivered the eulogy and all, and all of her relatives and mother’s friends cried while she, the daughter, simply remained stone-faced and unfeeling.

After her mother’s burial, the woman visited her grave every sunday. Every visit, she brought another bouquet of flowers she had grown, and laid them upon her mother’s grave.

Despite how many people had cried at the funeral, the one who hadn’t cried seemed to be the only one who ever brought flowers.

She could still hear her mother’s voice every visit, chastising her for leaving these worthless things upon her grave. But she still did it, like clockwork, every sunday. Why? She didn’t know. 

Perhaps this was just the only way she could see any beauty in her mother.

She thought of how, growing up, everyone had justified her mother’s actions by saying “She’s your mother.” She thought of how just about anything and everything a mother could knowingly do wrong was justified by that claim. She thought of how much that claim hurt how, about how everyone seemed to brush off years of screaming, abuse, and general vileness by bringing up the fact that her mother had performed the task of birthing her.

To her, that wasn’t enough, To her, that wasn’t a mother. That was a machine. A monster. To her, none of it was justified.

And yet she still lay flowers on that grave every sunday.

Author's Note

Critique always welcome~