One
There is a sprawling dogwood in my front yard.
Most of the time it’s nothing to scream about, but when spring finally awakens after a whole lot of snow and whatever else, that tree is something to behold.
Perfect pink blossoms the color of the streaks in a sunset sky cover the long gnarly branches all the way around. And then, even better, when the wind picks up around the time the dogwood is ready to shed its flowery coat, my entire front lawn is covered in its pink fur. Which just leaves behind ordinary green leaves, of course.
But green’s alright, too. If you’re into that sort of thing.
Me, personally, I like blue. Always have. But I digress.
The tree.
Last year, I helped Daddy plant another one – a sapling – on the other side of our driveway bordering the eastern front of our small neighborhood property. It bloomed at the end of March for my birthday. The flowers were white. I thought: hmm, I don’t know if I like this. Maybe if it was as big as the one directly in front of my two-story duplex, I’d like it better. But at most, it only made fifty little white ones. Nothing to go crazy over, and I didn’t. All it took was one feeble gale from the Chesapeake to shake that dogwood bare.
“Give it time,” Daddy said. “Have patience. In ten years, you’ll see. It’ll be something, Kayla. Just like the pink one out there.”
Which brings me to my main source of discontent, the reason I’m even writing this damn thing. Yes, I said ‘damn’. Please don’t tell my parents.
My name is Michaela, but Daddy insists on calling me Kayla. Do you know how much I don’t like that name? Like, a lot. But I love my Dad, therefore, I suffer the injustice. I have to. It’s what every good Christian girl’s supposed to do, right? I mean this is the South. Granted, if I took one stop across the border of this state in any direction except south, I’d be in the North. What sense does that make? Whatever. I’ve always liked to consider myself a southern belle. It has so many romantic connotations. And despite being a seven-year-old, my head is more often than not engaged in imagining myself engaged in romantic exploits. I’m entirely too old for my own good.
My Mom says I need to quit dreaming and study. Study, study, study. Oh, I do it just fine. All the time, in fact. Why? ‘Cause it makes my Daddy proud. And it’s so hard to make him proud, believe you me. I had to get clean through the Bible cover to cover – well, the New Testament, anyway – before he finally acknowledged I was a natural-born reader. I think I came out of the womb able to cipher, leastways I picked it up faster than any child I or anyone else I know knows. Sesame Street helped with that. My Mom says she didn’t do a darn thing (see, I said darn that time).
And she really didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, my Mom does plenty. But I have a little sister now who gets most of her attention, not that I ever really had it all even before that wailing bundle of problems came around.
So at the table in the dining room I sit from morning until just before my Daddy comes home. I take breaks in between, of course, but I try to pucker my brows together just as he walks in the door so that he’ll know I’ve been concentrating. It works, too.
“Hi, Kayla. Studying hard, huh?” he’ll say.
“Yes, Daddy. I did seven subjects today.”
“Seven? Good, good.” Smiling, he’ll set his briefcase down over by the bottom of the stairs and remove his shoes. What usually happens afterwards is not worth mentioning – somewhere between mundane and downright boring. It’s not until after my Dad has given his attention to the aforementioned bother in a pink blanket and has dinner that he takes me outside with him to tend the gardens. The best time of day.
