Soil
My mother always loved roses, especially the white ones. She always thought it was a gift from Heaven. Purity. In fact, she loved them so much that when she began to fall in love with my father, she greeted him with a snow white rose every time she saw him. A symbol of the pure love she had for him.
Their relationship was like a fairy tale. They met while my father was working. My mother would stand outside every Wednesday morning by her trash bin, greeting the waste collectors and thanking them for their part in the community.
My father was bewitched by her beauty when he saw her. Her smooth bronze skin seemed to glisten under the rays of the summer sun. Her curly brown hair always pinned up in an elegant bun held by a rose hair clip, a different color every week. The trim of her vintage floral dresses always bellowing so gracefully with the wind. But the most captivating feature, the thing my father looked forward to every Wednesday was her smile, lined with a rosy chapstick. Every time the edges of her lips lifted her cheekbones, her pretty brown eyes would sparkle, sending a soft chill down the spines of many.
Oh, was she was sight.
My father described her as the most beautiful woman he ever laid eyes on.
But my father? He was a bit of a scruffy fella. By the time he got to my mother’s street, his forehead and arms glistened with sweat, but his tired hazel eyes always had a friendly glint within them. He always had his reflective vest over his mildly stained work shirt. Blue jeans cuffed over his black steel toed boots. And though he always wore a hard hat, his coily hair was always picked and lined to perfection.
My mother would get a little flutter in her chest when she saw him. She noticed the definition of the muscles in his arms as he held onto the railing of the waste truck. His strong jawline outlined his own gorgeous smile with slightly chapped lips. The best part of her Wednesday was hearing his voice—a slightly southern accent under the depths of his monotone. And without fail, it would make her heart skip a beat.
“Good mornin’ miss Sarah” he would say, lightly tipping his hat in her direction as he walked toward her trash bin.
“Well, good morning Mr. Myles” she’d say, voice feathery and honeyed.
They both obviously had a thing for each other. The whole town could see it. But mama was a traditional woman and never believed in chasing a man. My father’s coworker urged him to ask my mother out. My father never felt his best in his work attire but he felt that during his next run, that would be his only opportunity. So one day he woke up extra early before his shift to spruce himself up.
When he reached my mothers’ street, boy did he bedazzle her. My mother said looking at him and how fresh he was made her heart skip two beats.
He removed his hard hat and placed it to his chest as he bowed to her.
“Good mornin’, Miss Sarah.”
“Oh my, don’t you look spiffy today. Good morning Mr. Myles.”
You could already hear the sounds of church bells ringing. It hadn’t even been a year after my father made his move when they got married.
“Do you, Myles, take the lovely Sarah to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Sarah, take Myles to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“I now pronounce you Mr. And Mrs. Paladine. You may kiss your wife.”
Cheers went off like fireworks, and flowers were flung like confetti.
But just like flowers, my parents’ relationship began to wilt.
Nine months after their marriage, I was born. A home birth my mama had without her husband. He worked that day, an office job that he refused to take off for my birthday.
“Good job, mama!” Proclaimed the mid-wife as she laid me on my mothers’ bare chest.
My mother smiled weakly, kissing my forehead. “Rose,” she said. “Your name is Rose. You’re a gift from Heaven.”
Purity.
Growing up, my father wasn’t around much. He was always so busy working. The only time I saw him was early mornings when he would be rushing out the door.
“Hi daddy!” I said with my hands behind my back.
“Hey sweetheart. Good mornin’” said my father looking at me through the mirror as he fixed his tie.
“Look what I made you, daddy!” I removed my hands from behind my back, holding out a paper with a colorful drawing on it.
I began to point at the images I’d drawn.
“This is you, this is mommy, and this is me! I made it for you.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, darlin’” my father said as he turned around to reach for his jacket draped over the dining chair, his gaze not even acknowledging my gift.
My mother noticed this and jogged from the living room towards me, a broom in one of her hand. She placed her available hand on the middle of my back.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s so beautiful. How about we put it on the fridge? Something as amazing as this has to be hung up somewhere we all can see and appreciate it.”
With a positive flick of her finger under my chin, she grabbed my paper and placed it on the fridge held by a strawberry magnet. “There. You see? Looks so good up here, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah…” I replied softly.
I could see the heat in my mothers’ gaze lasering on my father. Oblivious to this, he slipped his arms into his jacket, as he kissed my mother on her forehead. A quick peck that barely grazed her skin and patted my head before heading toward the door.
“I’ll be back later. Ya’ll be good, ya hear?”
The door closed behind him.
My mother sighed. Her smile slight, she grabbed my hand.
“How about we draw something together? Maybe you could teach me some of your fine art skills, hm?”
My father would come back late every night. We would always have dinner without him. My mother would try to distract me from his empty chair by turning our meals into an adventure, transforming the food on our plates into a grand expedition. With each bite, she’d weave tales of daring quests, navigating through jungles and oceans, anything to keep me smiling. I really only gave my best smile to see the joy dance across her lovely features. She was so worn down, her beautiful, curly hair all over the place, her sparkly brown eyes so dim and lifeless. I could tell her smile was just as forced as mine.
Now the one thing I could say about my daddy, was though he always missed dinner, he never missed my birthdays. I guess he felt guilty for missing my birth that in order to make up for it, every year he would treat me like a princess. He bought me anything I wanted. My favorite was for my 6th birthday, he bought me a three-tier cake and inside of it was a little diamond bracelet encased in rose gold.
“Now this here is a precious thing, darlin’. Daddy’s been workin’ extra hard just to get this for ya” said my father. He turned the bracelet in on itself.
“Ya see this?” His finger traced the lines of the engraved cursive writing. “This says ‘Amongst all the stars, you’re the one I wished on’. So when ya see the brightest star at night, make your wish, darlin’. And I’ll carry it in my heart till it’s done. That star disappears?…” he gently grabbed my wrist to clamp on the bracelet “That’s heaven sayin’ your wish has been heard.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead.
“Ya have my word, darlin’.”
So every night, when the sky was clear, I would look out my window and find the brightest star and make a wish.
“I wish I could see you more, daddy.”
“I wish we could do more things as a family.”
“I wish you could eat dinner with us. Mama always makes you a plate just in case.”
“I wish…”
“I wish…”
“I wish…”
Every time that star would disappear, so did my dreams. I guess daddy wasn’t exactly a man of his word.
One night I was woken up by a sudden commotion. A sharp crash coming from the dining room downstairs. It sounded like the shattering of a vase. I could hear my father’s voice reaching a level and emotion I had never heard before. My mothers’ though still so soft, also raised in volume and tone. “Are you not ashamed?” She screamed. “I loved you! I gave you everything I had—years of me, and this what I get back? Am I not enough? Was it not enough?”
“Sarah look at ya!” My father snapped back. “Ya can’t even keep yourself up no more! Every night I come home and ya look like you don’t give a dang about yourself, let alone me!”
“Oh, so this is my fault? It’s my fault you don’t have no morals? That you live in a fantasy? It’s my fault you don’t know how to be a real man?”
With that, I heard a loud clap, a sound as sharp as a whip, then a short silence.
“Now don’t ya ever purse your lips to say such a thing to me again, ya hear?” My father’s voice dropped, his words nearly hissing through his teeth. “I’m more of a man than you deserve. Remember that.”
I could barely sleep the rest of that night. But little did I know there would be more nights like this to come.
Almost every week the arguments got louder, the sounds became harsher and the smiles on both my parents’ faces became faker.
I started to notice my mother waking up extra early in the morning, spending hours in the bathroom. She would come out with her hair pulled back in a classy bun, each curl perfectly placed and pinned with a single rose hair clip, a different color every day. She draped herself in the finest floral dresses I had ever seen. Her lips lightly glossed with a rosy tint brought out the slight sparkle in her tired, pretty brown eyes.
Oh, was she a sight.
Even I couldn’t help but admire my mothers’ beauty. But daddy didn’t seem impressed. He went about his mornings barely even noticing her, let alone the new red porcelain vase placed perfectly in the center of the dining table, with a single white rose resting beautifully within. My mother didn’t show it, but I could tell she was hurt. Oftentimes while she cooked dinner in her frilly apron, I could hear her soft sobs and sniffles. Her shoulders would lightly tremble with each cry she let out. And whenever she heard my feet touch that kitchen floor, she would quickly turn her cries into a gentle hum, a sweet soft blues. Mama always tried to hide it. But I knew.
I began to despise my father.
“I wish daddy would be nicer.”
“I wish daddy loved mommy.”
“I wish daddy would never come back home again.”
Of course if it failed all those other times, what made me think it would be any different? But this time was different. Weeks later, that star vanished, and it took daddy with it.
It was late—past the time my father would usually be home: 10:03.
My body was used to waking up at this time due to all the fights my parents had then. But this time, it was silent. Curiously, I peeked out my door, cracking it open ever so slightly to get a glimpse of downstairs. I saw my mother sitting on the couch weeping softly into her hands.
There in front of her was a small stack of papers next to a yellow envelope on the coffee table.
I didn’t understand the big, bold word printed at the top of the first page, but I did know the letters.
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
After that day, I never saw my father again. My mother was an honest woman, she didn’t believe in lies. She told me he left. That he found somewhere else he felt he belonged. Even so, I couldn’t help but blame myself for his disappearance. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell mama what I had done. Instead I cried with her every night. My tears filled with guilt and regret. I only wanted to see mama smile again. I didn’t mean to hurt her, to hurt us.
For the longest I believed my father was one with the stars. So I’d wake in the middle of the night to look for the brightest one.
“I’m so sorry, daddy. I didn’t mean to make you go away. I was angry. I’m so so sorry. Please come back home. We miss you. I promise I’ll be careful with my wishes. Just come back home. Please?”
“I’m sorry daddy…”
“We love you daddy…”
“Come back…”
My mother introduced this new thing to me: prayer. She said it was like making a wish but to a man in the sky who was so powerful and mighty that it made a wish a breath compared to a prayer. She said his name was God. That he’s the father of us all, always watching over us, guiding us. She said whenever she needed anything, she came to him, because he was the only one who ever listened to her and gave her everything she needed even if she didn’t like it. Though it was so new to me, I was willing to try anything to get my daddy back. So I prayed. I prayed every single night.
“Dear God, please bring my daddy back.”
“Dear God, just let me see him? Just to make sure he’s alright…please?”
The stars never answered, but God certainly did.
Without my daddy around to take care of us, my mother became the sole provider. The only provider. She got a job at the market, and being close friends with the manager there, she was allowed to bring me with her on her shift. I’d sit in a folding chair against the wall right in the eye view of my mother. I was not to get up without her permission. I suppose she didn’t wanna lose me either. I was given coloring books to keep myself busy. By the end of mama’s 8-hour shift, I had about finished 5 pages, background included.
One day, my crayon rolled off the page and landed on the floor, tumbling a little away from where I sat. It was pink—a vibrant, cheerful pink. I’ll never forget it. I glanced up at my mother who was busy ringing up a customers’ items. I slid off the chair, my shoes creating a light squeak as they hit the floor. My eyes focused solely on that little pink crayon. I hunched over slightly as I chased after it.
I watched the crayon roll and stop at the wedge of someone’s brown leather shoes.
“Oh…is this yours?” Asked the stranger, a slight southern accent under the depths of his monotone.
He bent down, picking up the crayon with two fingers like a cigarette and held it out to me.
“Y-yessir” I stammered. “Thank y-“ But before I could finish, my eyes locked onto his face. He had hazel eyes with a friendly glint within them, a strong jawline framing slightly chapped lips, and coily hair picked and lined to perfection.
It was like the world froze right there. I thought I was dreaming.
I felt my heart skip a beat.
And at that moment, I didn’t know whether to rejoice or to be angry. But that decision became painfully clear when I heard it.
“Daddy!” A little girls’ voice called out, slicing through my thoughts.
Everything around me moved in slow motion. I watched my father turn his head at the sound. A little girl about my age raced toward him with a doll still in its box clutched tightly in her hand.
“Look what I found! Can I have it, daddy?”
A tall red haired woman jogged behind her calling out “Penelope! You can’t keep running in stores, sweetheart.”
My heart sank as I turned back to my father. It was as if he didn’t even recognize me. He patted me on the shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a goodbye than a hello, and placed the crayon into my hands.
He rose up and walked toward the little girl and the woman, his back turned to me.
“Of course ya can have. Anythin’ for you darlin’”. He said, his voice warm and affectionate.
He didn’t even look back at me.
Pain twisted my face, and a sharp ache clenched my heart. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked down at the crayon in my palms. It was pink—a vibrant, cheerful pink.
I’ll never forget it.
