This Life of Mine (Nonfiction)

Morning Glory

            My mother always loved roses. As a child, I remember watching her mix Miracle Grow into the sprayer compartment of the watering hose, and she’d sweep the blue-green spray back and forth over her rosebushes. I trailed along behind her, hoping to catch a moment of her focused attention, babbling on and on with stories and observations, asking “Are you listening?” when she didn’t reply. She’d mumble “Of course” as she continued to mother the rosebushes, and even I couldn’t help but marvel at the roses.

        There were red ones to match the blood that bubbled from my fingertips when the thorns pricked my skin. There were yellow ones that reminded me of the soft butter my mother would spread on blackened toast. The peach ones reflected the bright apricot of the morning sun, and the white ones were so delicate I could see the green veins as they twisted through the petals. The pink ones reminded me of the blush that my mother used to brush across her cheeks every morning. Every color was vibrant and saturated, and every petal felt like velvet to my tiny fingers. I thought they must have been the most beautiful flowers in the world.

        My mother lavished her attention on them daily, pruning and watering them. She would snip off the dying stems that sucked life from the blooms, and she’d dig her fingers into the soil to make sure the dark, rich dirt was nourishing and moist at the roots. She would cover them with trash bags if the weatherman called for frozen dew to shield them from the constricting collection of precipitation. She cared for them unrelentingly; she wanted those rosebushes displayed proudly in the front of our house for everyone to see and admire.

            The rosebushes grew in front of our porch and throughout a small alcove formed by the porch and our protruding garage. One morning, my mother and I were pulling up weeds from around the rosebushes, and as we made our way to the corner formed by the edge of the garage, I noticed tiny blue flowers peaking from beneath the leaves of a red rosebush. They grew close to the ground in a small clump of maybe three blooms. The centers were gleaming yellow and the thin, dainty petals were the blue of the sky at the moment just after the sun dips below the horizon—deep but somehow still glowing.

        Unlike the roses with their flamboyantly layered petals, the flowers hidden in the shadow of the roses had a single row of those fragile blue petals framing the bright yellow center. The petals looked like they’d tear if I looked at them too hard.

            “They’re called morning glories,” my mother told me, watching me reach my finger hesitantly forward to skim the surface of the petal.

I touched the silky face of the flower so softly that it tickled my fingertip.

            “Why?” I asked, always wanting a reason for everything, assuming everything had a reason.

            “Because they only bloom in the morning,” she said.

            I was awestruck. It seemed that the morning glories slept every night only to wake and spread their petals to greet a new day, all without help from anyone. Until that moment, I hadn’t even known they existed, and I suspect my mother hadn’t either; she hadn’t planted them. She would never have dreamed of planting something that might steal nourishment or attention from her roses. Yet those morning glories flourished in the shade of the roses, never demanding special attention; they were as stunning to me as the roses that pranced above them.

            I was never the beautiful child. I was the youngest of three, and my two older sisters were from a different father, same mother. They had better genetics—olive skin, blue eyes, dark hair, fine bone structure. Exotic. Everyone liked to say that I looked identical to my father—fair pink-tinted skin, ambivalently green eyes, mid-toned hair, round face. Average, at best.

            But I was the smart one. I was a straight-A student and graduated as one of the top five students in my class. We were all five considered valedictorians and gave speeches. I received highest honors, was a member of three honor societies, graduated STAR student with a perfect score on sections of the SAT and ACT, and received a full scholarship to college. Graduation day was supposed to be an exciting day.

            I remember the way my knees trembled as I walked across that field, the tiny black balls of AstroTurf cushion filling my high heels and digging into my soles like gravel. I remember the way the lights blinded me during my speech like I’d spent too long staring at the sun. I remember the way the black and gold hats twirled through the air like bumble bees when my classmates tossed them up, but I was too afraid of letting mine go. I remember searching for my family afterward, hoping they’d be carrying flowers for me, hoping they’d take me out to eat at my favorite restaurant, hoping they’d beam at me like I’d won a Nobel prize like the families of my classmates.

            When the field finally cleared, families grouping up like schools of fish, I saw my mother along the outside of the fence. She was short, a little plump but shaped well. Her red bob haircut stood out against the yellow of the refreshments building, and her olive skin had already started to tan in the early heat of summer. Her blue-green eyes flashed in contrast, and she’d enhanced them with her makeup, ever sure to make a good impression on a crowd. Even at fifty-something, my mother was a beautiful lady.

        When she made no move toward me, I met her where she stood, waiting.

        As I approached, she said, “Lord, I’m glad that’s over. I thought they’d never get done reading all those names. Let’s go home. I’m so tired I feel like I’ve been beat.”

            I waited, still hoping for “congratulations” or “job well-done.” Still hoping for dinner or flowers or a card. Still hoping for tears of pride. Still hoping for affirmation.

            “What?” she asked, already on the defensive, ready to fight.

“I’ll meet you there,” I said, unzipping my gown as I turned and walked to my car. I tossed my cap into my backseat.

            I didn’t understand as a child why those morning glories were so captivating. As I grew older, I realized how much of myself I saw in them, waiting for innocent wonder to appreciate the beauty hidden in the shade, waiting unattended in that corner only to spread themselves open in the calm, cool, quiet of morning.