Paper flowers never die

A story loosely based on childhood memories, set at the Belgian coast, one of my favorite places in the world.

When I was about six years old, my favorite place in the world was my grandparents’ seaside villa. We would spend weeks on end there on vacation; my little brother, older sister, and I crammed into a tiny room, simultaneously annoying each other to no end and having the time of our lives. My brother snored and my sister talked in her sleep, but I swear I slept better in that smelly little room with the sea breeze rattling the old windows than I did anywhere else.

In the morning, the muffled sound of classical would seep through the walls and ceilings, coming from the battered little radio in the kitchen where my grandparents ate at the crack of dawn, ever the early birds. When the quiet melodies woke me up, I would tiptoe downstairs quiet as a mouse, careful to skip to skip the creaking third step. I would arrive in the kitchen bleary eyed, my hair sticking up in odd directions and Grandma would scold me for walking around barefoot and hand me too large slippers to wear while I ate cereal mixed with just the right amount of milk.

A few hours later, when everyone else had gone through their morning routine, we would all head to the beach, except Grandpa. I’m still not sure why, but he stayed behind every day, tending to the flower beds and vegetable patches that filled their small but magnificent garden instead. We all cycled to the beach, our bicycles forming an odd little group. Mine was red, and later purple, but always had a little basket at the front, perfect for carrying my beach supplies " paper flowers, a little bucket, and a stack of comic books.

Once at the beach, we would settle amidst all the other vacationers and set up shop. It is tradition at the Belgian coast that children make paper flowers and sell them for a couple shells called “knives” a piece. The shells, long and narrow, could be found on any beach, but they were like precious gold to us. To this day, I still buy a flower every time I go to the beach, and I keep every single one of them in a vase that sits on the windowsill at the villa. I never kept any of the one we made, as we would run out of flowers (and usually patience) after an hour or two and turn instead to our next important task: sandcastle building. We were a well-oiled machine when it came to this; my sister was queen of the high mounds on sand perforated with many layers of tunnels and my brother dug the deepest trenches found on the Belgian coast, while I ran back and forth to the sea with my little orange bucket to supply the water. And when I got tired of that fruitless effort, it was my job to arrange the morning’s hard-earned shells on our new creation, making it into a true palace.

Before we knew it, it was time for lunch (eaten right there and then, as we dared not leave our castle unattended) and another round of sunscreen rubbed into every inch of our bare skin no matter how much we begged to escape the ritual. At that time, the sun would be at its peak, high in the sky and flooding the beach with light and warmth, and the next half hour was spent reading under a sun umbrella, usually comics from the never-ending pile at the villa, collected by previous generations of equally avid readers. We were only allowed to get up when our mother made a big show of looking at her watch and declared the digestion period to be over. In a second, comics would be dropped and forgotten while we sprinted into the waves at full speed and staying there for hours, only to retreat when the rising tide threatened to swallow our carefully built castle. Fervently, we would go back to work building wall after wall after wall in front of it in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. Every day, unfailingly, the sea would finish by swallowing it whole, leaving behind but a shapeless lump of wet sand and exhausted but happy, we would gather our things and head home, swearing to try again the next day.

Once home, we would head to the dreaded third floor with our parents while our grandparents cooked dinner. The third floor was home to the attic and the bathroom, and both earned our disgust and apprehension. Right as you entered the bathroom, you would find yourself face to face with a bidet " the first I had ever encountered " which we mostly used to wash our sand-covered feet. Then, all three children at once, we would strip off our clothes and still wet swimsuits and stand shivering by the vast bathtub while it filled slowly with warm water. We " as well as the adults " were forbidden to take a bath there alone with the door closed as the water heater ran on gas. I recall not really understanding what simple gas could do to you and deciding that it must have had something to do with the small orange flame visible in the water heater, so that during the nightly ordeal, I would stare at it relentlessly, sure that the whole room was going to explode at any moment. I was first in and first out of the tub while my siblings took more convincing going in but then splashed around for what seemed like hours and refused to leave the water even after it turned lukewarm.

Finally, after much pleading and arguing, the bathtub drained and once again its shiny white color, we would race down the three flights of stairs in our pajamas and slippers. If the weather permitted it, we would eat outside, devouring whatever delicious meal had been prepared that day (our grandparents knew all our favorites) until our bellies were full and our eyelids started drooping and we would head to bed.

The last voice we heard every night was our father’s who read us the adventures of a mischievous little boy named Nicholas by the summer evening sun, sitting at the foot of my brother’s bed, the one closest to the window, all three of us crowded around him. Even now, I can still recall the crickets’ muffled cries, the wide shadows cast on the flowered wallpaper by the sinking sun’s bright light, and the exact voice my father took to immerse us into Nicholas’s world.

But little girls and little boys grow up, and soon enough summers became too busy for weeks away at the coast, then our father’s job took us away across the ocean, too far to see even from the tip of the coast in France from which we could spot England on sunny days. So while we lived our increasingly exciting and busy lives, our grandparents lived on, too, in the distance; tending to their plants, feeding the neighborhood stray cats, and shopping at the market every Thursday afternoon. And every summer they were there, welcoming us back to Belgium for a few weeks, same as always…until they weren’t.

The phone call came last week, in the middle of the day, on a Monday. No one was home and Grandma had to try three times before reaching Dad on his phone. He was in a meeting. I can’t help but think it was unfair we had no warning, not even a split second to prepare: no phone ringing eerily in the dead of the night, no hint of a declining health. Just a Monday morning call like they made to ask why their computer had suddenly shut down.

It was quick, she assured. A heart attack. One blocked blood vessel and poof! Gone was the man who taught me the names of birds and plants and how to fill in even the trickiest crossword. Gone was my grandmother’s husband and my father’s father, my grandfather, the biggest jokester at the dinner table. Gone was the one I had somehow tricked myself into thinking would be there forever.

We had been scheduled to go back this Summer anyway. For good. The house was half packed and our plane tickets booked for the end of the month. We had three weeks left in America; one for exams and two for goodbyes to three years’ worth of friends. We couldn’t just leave right there and then. So my father flew back for the funeral alone while the rest of us stayed behind to pack up and tie a nice bow on the end of our lives in this country that had, after all these years, become a second home to us. Between all the goodbyes happening there and the final goodbye taking place at the same time across the ocean which seemed, not for the first time, all too wide, I’m pretty sure we all spent most of those last three weeks crying over half-packed boxes.

But we’re back in the villa now, probably for the last time. My brother still snores, my sister still talks in her sleep, and the wind still rattles the windows; but I can’t sleep anymore. Instead I lay silently on my back and I take in all the sounds and smells that bring back memories which almost seem to belong to someone else. Someone who, all those years ago, called this place her favorite place in the whole world, before she had even seen much of it.

Tomorrow, I will sit at the kitchen table in the early morning with classical music playing from the same old battered radio and I will make one last paper flower. I think I will drop it in the patch of begonias " his favorites. Maybe I will try to climb the big cherry tree at the back of the garden one more time. And when I go back inside, the villa will have been sold. The new owners will probably tear it down, according to Dad. But he’s always been a pessimist. Personally, I hope it will be rented as a vacation home, so that other children can sleep in the little room and hear the sea breeze rattle the windows and find there their own favorite place in the whole wide world. Although I wouldn’t mind if they did remake the bathroom…

Author's Note

I quite like this piece as I think I'm using my "real" voice, one that comes naturally to me, so I would love any tips you have for me to improve it.

Reviews

[Shannon]

This is a lovely tribute to a beautiful place and a idyllic time. The end is so bittersweet, in the best way.

The bathtub pilot light, so funny.

As you have asked for ideas for improvement, I have a few suggestions.
Consider creating for us a day. Show us more, instead of telling a typical day. Sell the flowers, rather than tell us you did, for example. I think this is why i reacted so strongly to the bathing. Because you showed us.

Also, I would encourage you to be careful with Phrases like "Finally", "Once Home", "Once at the Beach", etc. they interrupt the flow of reading, this delightful little piece.

I am thrilled to see your comment about you "'real' voice" and encourage you to both continue with that and to consider polishing this particular piece of work a bit, which is beautiful, both in its story and its loving descriptions.