Flowers (A short story)

A wise man once said that Black men only get flowers when they’re dead.

It’s true.

That wise man was my granddaddy.

On the day of his funeral, my me’ma, ma, Aunt Carol, younger brother Darrell and Cousin Dee all assembled at my granddaddy’s house and prepared and ate breakfast.

Scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and freshly squeezed orange juice lay deliciously on the table. Just as they did each Saturday and Sunday before. When Aunt Carol asked me to pray over our meal, no one seemed to go without misty eyes.

I was ten years old then and didn’t quite understand death and what that meant for my relationship with my grandfather. He seemed to be on a really long trip to the grocery store. At his funeral, It dawned on me that he wasn’t coming back and that death was final.

I only cried once. That was when I saw my me’ma, my grandaddy’s wife for thirty-eight years, cry in the hallway of our church.

When cousins Tyrell, Dante, Christopher, Jael, and a few of Granddaddy’s friends carried his casket to the hearse, I felt as though my face was about to explode.

Years later, I still remember the words of my grandfather. As I graduated college, got engaged to my then-girlfriend and now wife, and began fathering my own children, it always struck me as odd as something as beautiful as flowers was always reserved mainly for the women in our lives.

As Black men, we often believe that living our best lives, having fun, and enjoying the company of our friends outside of our neighborhood corners is reserved for those who don’t look or live like us.

So when my younger brother graduated with his Master’s Degree in Accounting at The University of Michigan, I did what no one expected: I gifted him a bouquet of roses.

When I finally sifted through the crowds of people meeting their graduates that Mayday, I gave my brother a dap and put my hand around his shoulder.

“Aw, man. Are those for Mom?” He asked.

“Nah, bro, these are for you!” I said with a smile.

As I handed him the roses as we walked down the hill away from all of the graduates, he said something unexpected.

“Black men only get flowers when we’re dead. What made you get me these? I’m not being ungrateful, just shocked, is all.”

I stopped walking, looked directly at my brother, and sighed. A wise man once said that we Black men only get flowers when we’re dead. That wise man was our granddaddy. You were young when he passed, but those words always stuck with me.

“So that’s why you got me there, ’cause you want me to get flowers while I still smell ‘em.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I said. “While you’re still here.”