Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
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I was at the grocery shop picking up last-minute items for Easter dinner when I spotted from the corner of my eye the most spectacular flower I had ever seen. It was, as I later learned, a peony.
What caught my eye about this flower was the big soft petals that formed neat concentric patterns. I was completely mesmerized as I stared at this flower from the lineup for the cashier, and I suddenly found myself bending over the bin that was full of various other bouquets, singling out the bunch of peonies, and plucking it up. It looked as if it were smiling at me.
“They’re so beautiful, aren’t they?” said the cashier.
“Yes,” I replied, pleased that I was going to buy myself flowers. I’d never done this before. On the way home, I wondered why I had never really been captivated by any flowers before and what was it about this one that affected me so much. After all, I’d been on this earth for over half a century, and only now had I seen or heard of such a flower, and most surprising of all, bought myself flowers.
As I later learned, the peony symbolizes beauty and nobility. It also has other meanings, but I think these descriptions fit it to a T.
Growing up in England, my family considered flowers and such as frivolous because we were immigrants and our job was to focus on things that would help us survive. Dad worked in the railways, and Mum, before she became ill, worked in a factory. We lived in a cookie-cutter house in an area where many immigrant families lived because of the close proximity to the factory. Our house had a small garden at the back, but instead of planting flowers like our neighbours, my mum and dad planted vegetables. “These will keep us alive just in case we can’t get them from the shop,” is what I heard on a regular basis.
We also built a tandoor oven under the ground, where Mum and Dad would make rotis while reminiscing about how it reminded them of back home, when their families would gather to make flatbreads on an outside clay structure. We children gathered around this makeshift oven like hungry little birds waiting for their next feed. The smell of these pancakes would waft throughout the neighbourhood, and sometimes we would hear complaints from our neighbours about the smell — the immigrant smell of onions, garlic and ginger mixed with spices, frying on a pan. But it was this aroma that comforted us and anchored us into our lives in England.
We didn’t care much about flowers that symbolized prettiness, fragrance, beauty and nobility. Who needed that when we were simply trying to get by with what life threw at us.
There was a lilac bush at the back of our garden that had been planted long before we had moved in, and during spring and early summer, blossoms of various shades of pink and purple would suddenly appear, as would the butterflies who waited impatiently for them to show up. But I don’t think any of us really paid attention to it. I can’t remember any of us standing there in awe, looking in amazement at the lilac bush. We were busy planting vegetables, focusing on the food that came out of our makeshift oven. That bush remained the only flowery thing in our backyard until we left the place. So much for flowers.
Don’t get me wrong. My mum and dad didn’t hate flowers, but I suspect they didn’t have the mental energy or time for them. When Mother’s Day came around, Mum would say, “Why waste your money on flowers? They’re only going to die. Keep the money for yourselves. Buy yourself shoes or coats to keep you warm and dry, or give me the money and I will buy clothes for your wedding.” I was only 14, but for my mum, it was never too soon to start putting together the wedding chest. So, instead of flowers, all of us kids would make food for her at home, and we would do the same for Father’s Day.
My mother passed away years ago after a lengthy illness. I wonder what my mum would say if she saw me today, buying these exquisite flowers. I can just imagine her shaking her head and saying, “You should have bought yourself a coat or something to eat. Flowers just die.”
Still, I wish I’d had the opportunity to show her this beautiful flower, and most of all, I wish I had the opportunity to buy it for her on Mother’s Day.
“Look, Mum,” I say aloud. “I brought myself a peony. Thank you for giving up your home and life to come to this country so that I could have opportunities that you never had, and so I could give myself these frivolous but beautiful flowers.”
Pawan Kaur lives in Sarnia, Ont.