There I am again—in the old greenhouse, where the smell of rose and lavender used to overwhelm me, calm me, make me sane. It’s the smell of my grandmother—the place we used to spend our time. She would teach me how to water the flowers—“Not too much or you’ll drown them.” She would cut the stems and pile them up on the white table that matched the white paneling of the greenhouse walls. The humid air created the perfect atmosphere for my flower arranging lessons.
I would pick up a rose, perfectly pink with a bright green stem, its thorns evenly spaced and far apart, inviting me to hold it and contemplate my next move. Then I would grab a lavender flower, putting the blossoms together in my hand first. I would add some greenery and keep building. Finally when my hands were full and the flowers reflected the way I was feeling that day—as my grandma always said bouquets should do—I would fit them to a vase, one of the many lined up high on the shelf in the back corner of the greenhouse next to the big, industrial sink.
Once my flowers were on display, I would call my grandma over from her position watering or weeding or planting new bulbs. Then she would come over, keeping her eyes on the ground, using her hand to shield them from seeing the arrangement prematurely. When her feet were nearly to the white table, she would lift her head, taking the flowers in all at once.
“I think you’re feeling love and excitement,” she said one day. I shook my head no.
“Elation and affection?” she tried again.
“Those are just synonyms,” I laughed.
We would continue the trend until she finally landed on the correct answer. That day’s blend was contentment and joy, which was exactly how I felt any time I got to spend time with her.
Other days we would sit with a cup of tea, looking out the many windows of the greenhouse as the rain poured outside. She would tell me jokes that would have me laughing until my cheeks hurt and my throat ached. Sometimes her jokes were a bit raunchy, and she would look at me sheepishly and tell me not to repeat them. I wouldn’t attempt it anyway—I couldn’t tell them like she could.
Now as I sit at that white table, I picture what my bouquet would express today—sadness and pain. I don’t even think that type of arrangement deserves flowers, maybe just the stems full of thorns peeking out of the vase as if to say, “Fuck off.”
Tears fall and a deep ache opens up inside me. I look around the empty greenhouse, the flowers wilted and dying. It’s like they know she’s gone, too. I allow my petals to fall off in the old greenhouse like the roses and lavender blooms before me. Inside the greenhouse walls, I no longer need to feign the ability to continue living, to keep going, because “that’s what she would have wanted.” Instead, I tell the critics in my head that I am fucking sad, and I allow myself to cry. I allow myself to dwell on the pain. I allow my chest to heave, my nose to run, my eyes to overflow with salty tears. I allow my legs to give way beneath me, and I lay in a ball on the dirt floor of the greenhouse.
I close my eyes and remember the days in there with her. I remember her sweatshirts embroidered with different flowers. I bring my chin to my chest and smell her smell on the purple sweatshirt I grabbed from her closet as we went through her things. Roses, lavender, lilies, peonies—they all have a place on the worn fabric. It was her favorite one to wear, and now it is mine—I am an extension of her.
I hear the door to the greenhouse open behind me, but I do not look up. I feel my mother’s arms pull me close and pet my hair. I feel her tears fall on the top of my head. We stay like this as the soil dries up around us and the flowers droop.
Faking It Made 