The Expectation of Time

My mother was a teacher, a Michelin star chef, a story teller, a therapist, a master gardener, a beauty queen, at least in my 13 year old eyes. She was a perfectionist, not that I had the vocabulary at ten to label her as such, it was only until adulthood that I could crown her with such a title. My father, on the other hand, was in constant disarray, disheveled and unkempt most days. His appearance wasn’t far removed from his presence, he was negligent to say the least, only appearing to hurl bearish demands at my mother and I before disappearing into the nearest bar.

Those nights were the quietest, she would tuck me into bed and read a sweet story, before turning on a night light or two and gliding downstairs to finish cleaning the kitchen. She would play soft music and light sweet candles, all before deadbolting the door. Some nights he would come home sheepishly knocking on the door, and we would both pretend not to hear him, so he would retreat to his car, to sleep it off. Other times, he didn’t show his face until the morning, and by that time she had removed the deadbolt and chain, so that he could enter.

The house would be immaculate every morning, and smell so sweet, most times like French toast, only being tainted by the bitter smell of day old beer as my father traipsed through the kitchen, muttering the same apology that he did every other day. Once in a blue moon when he had been gone for nights on end, he would walk in with a tiny bouquet of flowers and extend them to her. Without hesitation, she would pluck out a single flower, and use her thumb and forefinger to remove its top and place it behind her ear, before walking away. Defeated and agitated, he would toss the remainder of the $6 bouquet on the countertop and huff away. While they were occupied, I would take the bouquet to my room and hope they wouldn’t suffocate in my bookbag before I could give them to my girlfriend. She thought she was the luckiest and I was the most romantic, and I wanted to keep it that way. She didn’t need to know that the romantic gesture consisted of the remains of a sloppy apology from my drunkard father, because then I would have to share that a drunkard father existed. All she had ever seen was my polished mother, who rarely had a hair out of place, she didn’t need to see the potential of my future self.

Most afternoons, when I would return from school, I could find her alone in her garden, pruning and digging, with a slight smile on her face. Or sitting peacefully under the pear tree. The only part of her garden that she hadn’t mastered. She nurtured it, and loved it, was patient and attentive to it, but it never bore fruit. And the fruit it did bear, hardly made it to maturity before it would fall off and cause a commotion on the ground. Attracting every animal and insect that she couldn’t stand with its sweet, rotten smell. I would watch her until she would notice and wave me over. “What’s this one called?” I would inquire, trying to be as gentle with the petals as I knew how to. “You don’t remember”, she would joke, “if you spent more time with me out here, you would know”. I would chuckle and nod in agreement, then lose focus while swatting bugs away, before I could agree to change out of my uniform and come back to help her. In response she would pluck a small marigold from a patch on the perimeter of her garden and stick it in my front pocket, “don’t worry, this will keep the wasps away”, she would smile and kiss me on my forehead, before turning her attention back to her garden.

By sunset most days, she would be leaning over the sink, rinsing the last dish and staring off, with a look of sorrow at her barren pear tree. She carried so much sadness in her eyes, and only I seemed to notice. My dad would be on his third beer droning on and on about work and life and how no one appreciated him. We issued routine responses to him nightly until he tuckered out.

Most nights, I slept with my window open, just craving a cool breeze to squelch the heat provided by my grandmother's quilt. I had grown accustomed to the sounds of crickets or rain, even the occasional argument from our next door neighbors. Tonight I heard soft murmuring between muffled sobs. I swung back my covers exposing my legs to the cold night air and followed the sound to the back yard. There sat my mother, wrapped in a blanket, sitting neatly under the pear tree. She spoke before even making eye contact with me. “We planted this tree when you were born.” She briefly paused to meet my eyes, “Your father and I”, she smiled. “The man in the garden section said that it could take anywhere from 3-10 years to grow. Which we didn’t mind, because we figured, we had a lifetime in this household and in each other’s lives.”

I sat beside her and held her hand, but couldn’t find the words that she needed, so I sat silently and waited. “I wonder sometimes, if this tree is a lost cause, or if I should give it more time”, she questioned. “What do you think?” Part of me knew what I’d like to respond to, but understood that it wouldn’t align with what she needed to hear, so instead, I smiled and told her to do what made her happy. She opened the blanket she was wrapped in, and I climbed in her lap. We saw the headlights of my fathers car pull into the driveway, but decided to stay right where we were, eventually drifting off to sleep. When I woke up the next morning I was in my room, tucked neatly in my bed. My window was still open, but this time I heard the crisp, metal sound of a shovel breaking ground and labored breaths. I looked out to find my father, digging intentionally and in rare form, planting a new tree.

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