Steinbeck's "Chrysanthemums"

"Oh, I don't have any time for that!" said Iris. She was about to plant her Spring perennials.

"But it's his birthday."

Impatiently, she dropped her trowel on the table. "Look," she said matter-of-factly, "my hands are already dirty, and by the time I clean everything up I'll already be an hour late. Besides, he doesn't want to see me anyway. You go, I'll stay here with my flowers." She kissed her daughter on the cheek. It was returned with a dry sigh.

"Fine."

Iris very well could have gone if she wanted; her daughter knew that too. But she just preferred her garden. It was always so quiet and beautiful and it was all up to her. She had been gardening for years now; she loved the reciprocity of it all. If she put the work into a pot of peonies, the pot of peonies would give her beautiful blooms. It wasn't like, say, investing emotions into a relationship with a man who would fuck her and then leave, and it certainly was more pleasant than a sour-mouthed daughter who blamed her for her lack of relationship with her father. What was there not to understand about a flower? Plant it with care, water it, and voila: a pink beauty.

She'd made a routine of it, actually. Each morning, Iris would rise with the sun, work in the garden for a few hours, fix lunch (which was usually a salad), watch the soaps, water the garden, make dinner (which also was usually a salad), go to sleep. This pattern continued for years, and she was quite content with it. Life was much more simple this way. The wind would bring about the occasional visitor, but when the dust finally settled, it was Iris and her flowers. It was always Iris and her flowers.

Her daughter left. Iris sighed as the wind from the door's slamming reached her face and slowly raised her pepper colored bangs. She could taste its life. She imagined the wind to be crisp and light, like iceberg lettuce. So, Iris went outside and began digging deep into the earth. Soil was always one of her favorite smells; she loved how her fingers would get dirty and rough and wet as she worked. In her garden, she was independent Iris, a woman of the earth. Sometimes her fingers hurt, but thankfully the pain and visible flaws could be washed away as if they never happened.

The bulbs Iris had ordered for Spring were expensive. They were yellow calendulas, something she had never dealt with prior to this year. She tended to them like she never had before, occasionally sacrificing her routine for them. But it was worth it; she knew. After all, the more work she put into them, the more beautiful they would be.

Spring came, and so did her calendulas. In eager anticipation, Iris would look out of her kitchen window each morning as she was steaming her tea. The way the light hit the garden, the way the birds were chirping, the pleasant briskness of the morning wind causing a fluttering of the ivy; it was auspicious. She opened the door.

Iris went to the garden. In it, there were her bulbs, and from the bulbs she could see her long, slender stems. And from the stems she saw her bright green buds. And all of a sudden, the sun reached down with its long golden arms and the buds began to bloom. Iris watched carefully as the green separated, eyes focused on the emerging blossom, hoping to see a bright yellow calendula. But something terrible happened; they were grey. All of them. Each flower bloomed, revealing not a charming calendula, but a shriveled and withering plant, neck snapped and hanging limply like a dirty mop. One by one and faster and faster the dead flowers punctured through the earth like bullets, and now some blossoms resembled hard skeletal fists. Their petals resembled razorblades, and others looked like bruised fingernails on a cadaver. And they kept reaching and clawing and growing and snapping their grey-petaled teeth at the lone Iris. And it didn't stop, and soon all Iris could see for miles and miles was grey. This couldn't be, she thought. I did everything right, everything. In her disbelief, she cupped her hands to her mouth. She smelled the soil entrenched deep within her fingernails. It smelled like shit. But maybe it always did. And then Iris wilted and fell to the ground, defeated. Crumpled and withered among her garden of dead flowers, she cried:

"But I did everything right,
but I did everything right."

And the wind would bring about the occasional visitor, but when the dust finally settled, it was Iris and her flowers. It was always Iris and her flowers.