I was inspired to write this piece after watching a little girl stop to smell a flower, which instantly brought back memories of my own daughter. I thought of the countless walks we took together when she was small—traditions we still carry on today.
When she was little, one of her absolute favorite things was to pause and admire the pretty flowers around our neighborhood. She was especially enchanted by foxgloves, eagerly putting her tiny fingers inside their bell-like blossoms. I would always gently remind her to "watch out for bees". Those little pockets held a world of mystery for her. More than once, we made up whimsical stories about the secret families of fairies living deep inside them.
While the tale I am about to tell is a bit more somber, it serves as a gentle reminder: no matter our age, finding beauty in nature can offer the precise healing, perhaps even friendship, we need at that exact moment in our lives.
***
Clara was a quiet child with a deeply vivid imagination. Did this grow out of a need for safety? Or perhaps it was just how she was wired? No one really knows. Certainly not Clara; such questions simply did not exist in her mind.
She noticed everything. Well, everything that was worth noticing.
The steam escaping the spout on the hot tea kettle Mama put on every evening.
The feeling of her favorite stuffed animal, Mr. Rabbit P. Bunny, as he nestled into her belly every morning.
The sound of the wind as it spoke of a change in weather.
And her favorite: Flowers.
Clara noticed everything about flowers.
How they would sprout up through the cold early spring soil, speaking of petals and glorious scents to come.
The way those petals felt against her delicate fingers.
The way they looked arranged in one of the many vases Clara had managed to collect over the years, her interest in them prompting nearby neighbors to pass along unused ones left sitting in the backs of their pantries or tucked underneath sinks. Clara could sit for over an hour and simply stare at those flowers.
But over time, after tragedy occurred, Clara stopped simply staring at her flowers and instead began talking to them.
******
Clara really didn't have any friends. She would tell you that's because the other kids simply did not understand her nor appreciate the beauty of flowers. Some adults would say it was because she was teased by her peers, often relentlessly. Having a lisp and walking with a gait can bring out the ugliest in some children. It was not uncommon for her classmates to make loud slurping sounds or walk in exaggerated ways while chanting, "Look at me! I'm Clara! I walk like a clown!"
That quickly led to Clara being called Clara the Clown. And if that weren't cruel enough, some of the kids sank so low and began to make the sound of a gun going off. For you see, Clara's daddy had been a dedicated, well-respected, and trusted Police Officer in their small little town. Normally an incredibly peaceful, quiet town, it turned ugly one weekend during the visit of a traveling rodeo that brought in loud men and alcohol. The details of the story were never fully revealed to Clara, only that her daddy tried to break up a fight about to take place at the local bar. A gun was drawn by one of the drunken men, and before Clara's daddy could respond, it fired, hitting him in the chest and killing him instantly. At the funeral, Clara knew of only one thing to do: place flowers on top of his casket, kiss it, and in her small whisper tell her daddy that those flowers would keep him company in heaven.
It was only a few weeks later that Clara's mama first heard her talking in her bedroom as though she were having a conversation. Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked back to Clara's door, which was partly closed, and with a gentle knock said, "Clara, sweetie? Who are you talking to?"
Silence. Then, "No one, Mama."
Clara's mama stood by the door for a few more moments, concern creeping in, and decided not to push it. Both mother and daughter were grieving in their own way. That grief created a distance between the two of them. A distance Clara's mama felt would resolve on its own. A distance that, although Clara did not fully understand, could only be mended with honesty and bravery - something the two of them were lacking in at the time.
Days turned into weeks. Clara began spending more time in her room, the door always partly closed, talking to what her Mama soon discovered were flowers arranged in a vase on Clara's white desk.
******
Mama may have been concerned for her daughter talking to those flowers. But for Clara? Those conversations were her favorite part of the day. They were the only times she felt safe.
And closest to her daddy.
For you see, Clara had become convinced that those flowers carried messages from her to her daddy in heaven.
How did she know that?
The flowers told her. Talk to us, she heard them say, and they would deliver the messages to her daddy, keep him company, just like what Clara told her daddy at his funeral.
And it was during that one late afternoon that Clara's mama, who had been listening at Clara's door, figured out what Clara had been up to.
And she didn't like it one bit.
Some say it angered her.
But the truth?
It scared her.
Scared her because she did not want to accept the possibility of her dead husband being capable of watching them. Hearing them. Yes, she missed him. Terribly. So much so that she feared the deep hole she felt in her chest every moment of every day would never mend. Seeing Clara talk to those flowers as though her daddy could hear was too much. Mama felt they both had to move on, which included shutting the door on that part of their lives for good.
So that one late afternoon, Clara's Mama silently walked into her daughter's room and just as silently took the vase of flowers and walked out, at first stunning Clara into silence, which quickly changed when Clara realized her Mama was about to take away the only connection she had to her daddy.
"MAMA!" Clara yelled in surprised anger, leaping out of her chair, running after her Mama, down the stairs and out into the front yard, over to where the garbage cans were stored.
"MAMA, NO!" Clara screamed at the top of her lungs in a rage she had never experienced, screamed as she watched Mama lift up the lid, silently tossing the flowers inside as though she were simply throwing away unwanted trash. Tears began to roll down her face as she brushed past Mama, violently throwing back the lid, reaching in as far as she could, managing to reach just a few flowers, missing petals and all, pulling them out and pulling them fiercely against her chest, giving her mother a look of hatred and disgust.
"Clara," her Mama said in a very firm tone, one Clara rarely heard her use. She knew Mama meant business. But Clara did too. And she was not about to throw away her flowers no matter what Mama said.
Ignoring her, Clara walked past her Mama and headed back to her room, holding those flowers as though they were the most precious thing in the world to her. Because, simply put, in that moment they were.
Mama silently followed after her. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Opening up the door that, this time, Clara had closed completely.
"Clara, we have to talk," Mama said.
Clara silently and violently shook her head. Turning her back away, still clutching the flowers.
Mama walked over and tried prying open Clara's fingers to take those flowers. But Clara fought back with a vengeance that frightened her mother. They each eyed one another. Mama with exhaustion, determination, and fear. Clara with the same determination and her own anger.
It was Clara who broke the silence.
"Mama, you don't understand! I need my flowers. Daddy needs my flowers," she said.
"Clara, don't," Mama said, shaking her head, avoiding eye contact. "Daddy is in heaven. He doesn't need your flowers. He cannot even see them or you!"
Clara gave Mama the look of disbelief. How dare she say those words!
"He does TOO need my flowers, and he CAN see me. And he can see you too! Mama, he can see us! The flowers tell me! You HAVE to believe me!" Clara said, not taking her eyes off her mother. She noticed Mama's hands were shaking.
Mama stood up, almost violently, and said, "Clara, you are scaring me! Now I want you to listen to me and do exactly as I say: You are NOT to bring flowers into your room. And you are NOT to talk to them, do you hear me?"
"I don't care if I'm scaring you! I am NOT going to stop talking to Daddy. You can take away my flowers every day if you want. I will only pick more and bring them inside!" Clara had never spoken with such determination or bravery before.
Mama looked at her daughter and knew she had to admit defeat. There was no way she was going to be able to stop Clara. She sank down onto the floor and sat there, eyes blank, staring at an invisible spot on the wall.
Clara softened some and slowly sat down beside her Mama. She said just four words that broke the silent spell that had come between them during their grief. "It's ok to miss him," she whispered.
Mama looked at her quickly, at first feeling a deep angst, then, upon seeing her sweet daughter's face, her shoulders softened and she began to moan before a flood of tears and crying wails escaped her body. And Clara, she just crawled into Mama's arms, and the two of them sat there together on that hard floor, holding on to one another, clinging to one another, grieving the loss of one person who meant the world to each of them.
Now, normally, such an emotional response from an adult would scare most children. But not Clara. For she knew this time would eventually come. The flowers had told her so. They had told her to give her Mama time. That eventually Mama would find the ability to be honest and brave, just as Clara would. And it would be that honesty and that bravery that would not only heal the silence that had taken place between them and inside their house, but that would also allow them to find reason to smile again, to engage with life again, and to look at flowers as a reminder that even in the face of horrible loss, what was once beautiful could be again.
💖
Victoria
Welcome! I'm Victoria, Mama, writer, pianist, and storyteller.
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