Ashes From the Garden

“I really think you should go with the daffodil. It will look better. It's going to be in the springtime. You need those colors to really pop against the background of the season.”
“Mother, you don't even know what it means for a color to pop. You've been watching too much What Not to Wear.”
“I can't help it if it's the only thing on during my lunch break. Besides, they have really good ideas. But that Clinton character. I just don't know about him...I think he's...gay.”
She whispered the word “gay” as if it were some dirty secret that she didn't want to utter in the Baptist sanctuary.
“Just because he wears pink shirts and talks soft doesn't mean he's homosexual.”
“Well, you just never know these days. You'd think we were...”
“In the second hippie movement. I know mother. Before I go burn my bra on Washington, can we please focus here? “
“And he does more than talk soft. He talks like a woman.”
I rolled my eyes and cleared my throat, a technique I unwillingly learned from her.
“Well, I'm just saying is all...ok, ok, ok... so, about the daffodil...”
A grin spread across my face as I interrupted:
“I'm not choosing any colors that are named after flowers. That would make me a conformist to the pattern of roles that women are forced into. It's just one more way society oppresses our rights. Why aren't there colors named after tools and car engine parts? Maybe then we can experience gender equality.”
“I see your Bachelor's degree did you some good, young lady.”
I shifted, balancing myself against a pew. “So, what about macaroni and cheese?”
“I've never heard of such a thing!”
“You're in denial, mother. It was my favorite crayon in my coloring box. Don't you remember the time we argued over the sky on one of my drawings? You tried to explain to me that the sky was blue and should be colored blue, but I told you that it was much cooler to have the sky a macaroni and cheese color because then we could eat it anytime we wanted instead of just on Thursdays.”
She stopped to ponder this for a moment, reviving the wrinkle lines in her forehead. I could tell she was searching long and hard to remember that particular occurrence. She gave up with a sigh.
“I guess we've always had color disharmony.”
I nodded, agreeing. There was a long pause, the kind that bounced off of the walls, hit you, and caused your breath to shorten. I made any attempt I could to fill the empty air.
“So...how do you feel about this, mom? Are you ok with all of this?”
“How ok can a mother be about this sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about”.
“What?”
Now, if you want something that's sort of orange, I saw this beautiful color the other day. It's called “Sunburst”, and it's nice and cheery and...”
“What sort of thing, mother? Why do you refer to it as that? Why don't you call it what it is?”
“I was just rushing through the sentence. It was a phrase, that's all. Just a phrase.”
“Then why don't you call it what it is?”
“What what is?”
“What this is, the whole reason we're fighting over a ridiculous thing like color choice?”
I saw her fumble a little with her thought process, trying not to let my words connect to her understanding.“Well, I don't know. Listen, can we talk about this later? I'm really wanting to decide on some colors today so we can start placing orders.”
“What orders, mother? Do you even understand what you're saying?!”
“Why is this even an issue, Iris Marie? We had already talked about how this is what we were going to do today; we were going to come here to you father's sanctuary, pick out some colors that fit with the palette, and go shopping. That was the plan. Why has this changed?”
I bit my lip, crossing my arms against the December air that entered through a crack in the window. I understood her confusion. I was the one who had decided to come here today. I was the one who wanted to think about it. But now that I was here, the last thing I wanted to do was admit that this was a reality. The quickest way to do so was to let it manifest itself through our planning. And I didn't want that. I tried to ignore the weakness I felt, and the overwhelming need to sit down.
“I'm going to ask you again, mother. Are you ok with this?”
She shifted her eyes, counting the tiles on the ceiling, the same tiles that had been there twenty years prior. She knew how many tiles there were. My question hung itself from silent gallows.
I ran the palm of my hand over my head. It was weird to not feel hair there anymore. This was the one hairstyle I hadn't decided for myself. The bright side was, I now showered ten minutes less, and I didn't have to worry about going through one shampoo bottle a month.
Her mouth trembled, and I knew the quiet of that moment was the only response I would receive.
“So...what kind of flowers do you think I'll get?” I asked.
Her voice shattered against a concealed sob. I put my hand on her shoulder, waiting for a response, any response, anything to kill the emptiness I felt when silence reigned. She dabbed her wet eyes with a handkerchief, and replied with a forced smile, “Daffodils. Lots of daffodils.”