Petals of a Sunflower

It was the scent of oranges that usually did it. Made me think of him.

Of that window with the sage shutters, the curtains like feathers in the breeze.

I would think of the bright, vibrant burst of citrus on my tongue. The sharp, crisp color like the petals of a sunflower.

I would not think of anything else.

Not the chipped cup of damp paintbrushes, not the trailing pumpkin vines etched carefully along the doorframe with his knife. Not the sunflowers he kept picking for me, gathered in an old dented tea canister. Not the dusty green bottles dripping with candlewax, the burning candles flickering light like the sunset against the crumbling kitchen wall. The shadows growing longer, the hoots of barn owls roosting in the rafters. Of him pouring ruby red wine until the bottle was empty. Of our fingers brushing over the top of my glass. And always, through it all, the air that smelled of oranges.

Of his eyes, dark as the night sky, dark as a sunflower's center, watching my lips.

I could no longer be lost in the gentle tide of him, in our time in that little half-ruined villa. Not when life had moved on. I had survived. I had lived. I had begun to grow old.

But age makes the heart only more youthful. Softer, sweeter. More vibrant and bright.

I had begun thinking of him again. Begun wondering. My weathered hands clutched the window latch late into the night, watching the stars turn in the sky. Somewhere, a barn owl called out.

Had he survived as I had? Had he made a life? Had those dark eyes lit up with laughter? With love?

A Husband, and then another, had come like a ray of sunlight, and then were gone like the evening sunset. Children and grandchildren flittered like butterflies through my life. A garden that had gotten fuller with each passing year. Full of bright blooms, vibrant buds.

And yet, I had begun to wonder again.

All these years, I had pushed the thought away, tucking it under a blanket of soft, cold snow.

But a few days ago, I had smelt it. A gentle wafting, a sweet and bright scent, coming in through the window. An orange tree, planted by my recent late husband. A gift. A gentle push in the direction of closure.

I had smelt the scent of oranges once more. Had remembered. Had sat down on the window seat and held onto my cane with a grip of iron. It had been the only thing keeping me there, in my kitchen, and not in the past.

“I need to go to Villa Rever.” I told my daughter. Charlotte studied me for a minute.

“The old house you were holed up in all those weeks in the war?” Her eyes are bright.

A dip of my head is all I can manage. I have never spoken about it. I've only showed her some letters, a few pictures. She pieced the story together well enough.

She does not argue, only squeezes my hand.

She drives me there, and I pretend to not notice her dark eyes, glancing at me the whole way.

She pretends to not notice my shaking hands.

It’s a whole day’s drive, but it passes as if I am moving through a dream, through time.

When she pulls into the end of the driveway, I have to close my eyes. Take a breath. She stops the car.

“Here we are, Maman.”

I do not look. Not yet.

Charlotte helps me out of the car. I brace a hand on her shoulder.

“Here we are.” She says again, quiet as a whisper. I nod. I look.

It is almost as I remember it. The orange trees. The yellow stone. The wide windows.

Someone lives here now. Good. This place deserves life.

It’s taken care of. Repaired. No longer does the left hand side sag as if it might fall upon us at any moment. The front path isn’t half lost in weeds. The family of owls doesn't paint the floor with droppings. There is no need to hide, to be quiet, to leave it looking abandoned.

There's sunflowers growing in great clumps, tall and bright and flourishing. Fallen petals litter the ground like confetti. Like rays of bright golden sunlight.

They’ve kept the shutters sage green.

Tears brim.

“It’s a home, now.” Charlotte says.

I swallow. “It always was. Even when it was unfit for the rats.”

I look at her. She’s known for years, somehow. But it’s important, I realize, to say it aloud here.

“He was your father, Charlotte.”

She has a few tears in her eyes now, too. “I know, Maman.”

I nod.

“Charlie.” His name escapes my lips like a dying breath. The wind picks up in answer, and the orange trees reach out to me. I take a shaky step toward it. Toward him.

Our hands once entangled together, had been pulled apart, just inside the doorway. He had been ripped away from me.

But life had gone on.

And then brought me back.

“Do you want to knock on the door?” Charlotte asks, but her eyes on the orange trees.

I look at the house. The stones of the front walk. So much the same, but so very different. The house I came to see is far in the past. A different place, really. It was just a shell. What made it home to me is gone, now. Or at least, not really here anymore.

What's left stands beside me. Those eyes of hers, her father's eyes, are steady upon me.

“No.” I say, with a tilt of my head.

But… I take a few steps onward, and Charlotte, unsure, follows behind.

I stop before the wide trunk of one of the trees. The sun has begun setting now. Brilliant and bold.

I lay a rough hand upon the rough bark. Reaching through the years, the happy, full, loving years of my family. Back to the one at the very start, the one who was bright as the sun even in the darkest of times.

It's like the vibrant scattered petals of a sunflower, gold and yellow against the dark ground. A spot of joy among heartbreak. A glowing candle against the night.

“Thank you, Charlie,” I whisper, "for the sunshine."