Why I Hate Flowers

I think my mom was always obsessed with flowers to some extent. It's just that the disease made it much more pronounced.

She was a very affectionate mother. When I'd visit her during the summer, she'd dress me in colorful sundresses and she'd do my hair up in little pigtails. I never liked all that girly stuff, but I was willing to put up with it in order to spend time with her. We'd play games and she'd tell me jokes. I think she was lonely out there by herself, so sometimes we'd sleep in the same bed and she'd sigh contentedly.

Most of our days together were spent collecting flowers from the nearby gardens and fields. It was a good excuse to get outside, and she seemed to love everything that was little and delicate and pretty. She'd bend down and inspect every single flower to see if it lived up to her standards. She'd examine it from every angle, then she'd stick her nose right up to it and smell them for a long time. And only after gently pinching each petal did she know that this was the flower for her.

When she first got sick, we all supported her hobby. We figured it was a way to keep herself occupied, and her thoughts away from self-pity. At first it was just the sheer volume that increased. Her whole house became packed with the colorful little things. She didn't have enough vases, so she'd use cups and bowls and pots to hold them all. It was annoying, but it wasn't really troubling yet.

Then I started finding flowers in weird places. Some were smooshed between the plates in the cabinets. Some were hiding in the sock drawer. Once, the toilet wouldn't work and when I opened up the reservoir in the back, a dozen sunflowers were floating there. On more then one occasion, I'd see her pull something out of her pocket; something small and crumbled up, which she'd smell briefly before jamming it back in.

Her life became entirely devoted to collecting flowers. Even towards the end, when she was more skeleton that human and her gray skin stuck to her bones, she would wander out each morning, just after sunrise. When she'd return at night, her basket would be completely filled with daises and buttercups and roses and lilies and lilacs and petunias and orchids and hydrangeas and daffodils. There were some flowers I could never identify.

She started using one of those fat little tomato knives to dissect them. She'd pluck the stamens out and put them all in one pile. Then she'd cut off the petals and the leaves. She'd slice the stem down the middle, and she'd put all the parts into carefully arranged piles on the floor.

She died eventually. I don't know the details.

I hated the funeral. It was the first one I'd ever been to and the thin, old strangers kept coming up to me and giving me their condolences. I just wanted them all to shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

And in that crowded funeral parlor, there were a thousand flowers, each wrapped up in vibrant bouquets and wreaths. The stench clogged my nostrils and leaked down my throat. I knew I should cry and look sad for all the other mourners, but I just felt sick.

Now, about once a month, I stop by her grave. I don't take my dad, and I certainly don't take whichever girl I'm with at the time. They could never understand what it felt like for a little boy to lose his mother like that. When I'm there, I put fresh flowers on her grave. The whole process makes me nauseous. But I clench my lip and bear it.