Knowing well my inability to make up
stories, my older sister pipes up from the passenger’s seat: “We are going to a
special place, Vincent. When we get there, we’re going to need your help,
honey.” Kristin and I simultaneously unbuckle our seatbelts as the ignition
dies. Vincent (whose arms are now long enough to unbuckle his own belt from
beneath his car seat) rushes out of the car and onto the sidewalk, hopping
about with uncontrollable elation. “A new place,” I hear him thinking again as
his eyes excitedly survey the area, “and with my big sisters!” The joy is written
on his face. He takes my hand and gives
it a pleasant little kiss. My heart dissolves into my chest every time he does
this, and because of him, I am somehow made more innocent, more pure.
A strident ring pierces the lobby of
the flower shop as we enter through the glass door (which Vincent, of course, has
offered to hold open for Kristin and me). My nostrils are bewildered by the
multitude of floral scents— tulips, daisies, the crisp hint of lilac. At the
sight of all the elaborate arrangements, Vincent stretches out his gangly arms
perpendicular to the floor and spins, resembling an overjoyed Broadway
character. “Flowers!” He exclaims, “who are they for?” Without waiting for an
answer, he begins tap-tap-tapping the glass of each refrigerator door, admiring
the opulence of it all. “Vince, we are getting flowers for Mommy. We need you
to help us decide which ones to buy!” He accepts the challenge by hunching his
back and bringing his arms into his chest—like one of his T-Rex figurines— and
shuffles across the carpeted floor. The blue-haired clerk glances over at my
brother and tries to contain her amusement. Realizing she had spent too much
time watching this child, she shakes her head in disapproval at his unsophisticated
manner and returns to curling balloon ribbons. Noticing her reaction, I lightly
tug on the back of his shirt and ask him to “please stop” while my sister and I
peruse the special order books. After a few minutes, I am unnerved that the
only sounds in the room are the flipping pages of the book and the tearing noise
of the freshly-curled ribbons. I look over my shoulder and see my precious
little man staring, with all the tranquility in the world, at one particular
arrangement. He speaks without knowing I am watching him. “I want THIS one.
THIS one for Mommy.”
The arrangement he points to was not
the seventy dollar collection of lilies in an elegant cube-shaped vase. It was
not the hundred dollar arrangement of delicate carnations begetting more
carnations. To my deepest chagrin, he points to the most heinous, hideous
cluster of five-day-old, yellow and white daisies. An obnoxious yellow smiley
face coffee mug served as the vase. Vincent strokes the frosty glass of the
refrigerator door and beams with self-assurance— obviously the arrangement with
the giant, obtrusive smiley face is the perfect pick to cheer up Mommy. Kristin and I exchange looks of uneasiness,
as if to say, “are YOU going to be the one who tells him ‘no’?”
I tell him what I can without crushing his giving, thoughtful spirit. I
take a knee so that my eyes can meet his on the same level. “Baby, I just don’t
know about that one… it’s just, well, maybe Kristin and I better pick out the
flowers for Mommy since, um, we’re girls and we, uh, we know what’s nicest for
Mommy.” Vincent’s face falls from confused to distraught in a matter of
seconds. “So, you’re saying that… that I don’t pick out nice things?” He starts
to sniffle as tears begin to collect in the corners of his eyes. My
once-dissolved heart now turns to an anchor, sinking to the bottom of my Toms. Vincent
covers his blotchy face with his petite hands and Kristin smacks me appropriately
in the back of the head, a stinging sensation overpowered only by the weight of
my cast-iron heart. I take him in my
arms and kiss his peach fuzz cheek, tasting his salty, teary sorrow. I immediately
refute my comment. He nods when I apologize and is just as suddenly filled with
the same spinning, shuffling passion as before my careless comment. After
putting up a decent fight for the smiley-face arrangement, he eventually gives
in to what Kristin and I prefer. As we leave the store with our desired
bouquet, he gives my hand another one of his treasured kisses. Finally, my
heart can dissolve once more into his childhood.
Vincent is so quick to forgive in
these dissipating moments of childhood. Yet someday, when my Vincent becomes a
man, he may even look at his children with impatience, or even embarrassment,
when they shuffle about with their arms like dinosaurs, when they insist on the
most revolting item in the shop. But for now, he is a child. He knows more of
forgiveness and unconditional love than I do. Part of me wishes I had bought
the smiley-face arrangement, if only to keep his innocence intact for another
day. Still, Vincent blooms with innocence as the rest of my world merely
survives— wilting like the flowers in the shop.
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