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by Ellie Kirk
“I’ll give you five bucks to put the top up,” I shouted from the back seat of my papá Rafael’s convertible. We were roaring down the back road so fast I think we went airborne twice. The dust-filled wind had already gusted my hair into a tangle that felt like a clump of gritty cotton candy.
Papá glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “A convertible with the top up is just too sad. Besides, we’re almost there.”
“But I think I just swallowed a bug.”
Papá laughed. “Then stop complaining! A bug can’t fly into a closed mouth.”
A few minutes later we jolted to a stop where the country road met the dirt path that led to Grampa’s house. I made my escape and watched my dad, Abel, struggle out of the tiny front seat. Dad’s a big guy, and he hates the convertible. But he loves Papá, so he puts up with being folded into the letter N every time we drive out to visit Grampa.
“I’ll be back soon with lunch. Don’t get your new things dirty, Eden,” Papá said, then sped off with a wave.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and started up the path, but didn’t hear Dad’s footsteps behind me. I glanced around, and just for an instant I saw a scared, miserable look on his face.
Before I could ask what was going on, he gave me a little smile and took a slow step forward. We followed the path to Grampa’s neat white bungalow with its bright yellow shutters and the porch that wrapped around the house like a hug.
Grampa Isaiah waited for us on the top step. He looked like a shrunken version of my dad, as if he had stayed out in the sun too long and dried up.
I ran up onto the porch, and Grampa grabbed me tight and held on for a long time. Then he leaned back and looked me up and down, taking in my peach silk camp shirt and white linen shorts and hand-stitched Brazilian leather sandals. I even think he noticed my fresh manicure and pedicure. I like to look nice for Grampa, even though he teases me about it.
“Mighty grown up for a fourteen year old,” he said. His dark eyes warmed with a smile as sweet as clover honey.
He walked down the steps and nodded to Dad. Without a word, they headed around to the back of the house. I followed, taking my time as I passed the climbing roses and the lavender bushes and the white lilacs that grew all the way up to the second floor. I pressed my face deep into the lilacs and took a long, dizzy breath, then let the spicy-sweet lavender tickle my fingertips.
By the time I caught up, Grampa and Dad were coming out of the battered wooden shed. Dad tugged on an ancient pair of gloves. Grampa pulled a raggedy straw hat down to his caterpillar eyebrows. Equipped with pitchforks and hand-hoes and clippers, they strolled around the shed and into Grampa’s vegetable patch. I think they felt the same way I do when I go to a 50 percent off shoe sale.
Dad’s the best gardener in the world. I know he loves me and Papá, but a big piece of his heart belongs to the earth. His company, Gardens of Eden, is the number one urban landscaping business in Philadelphia. The only time Dad seems at peace these days is when he’s working in our condo’s rooftop garden.
I don’t go up to the roof too much. It makes me feel so guilty. Dad wants me to garden with him, but the thought of getting dirty and sweaty and sunburned and ending up with calluses on my hands is not my idea of fun.
Even now, I could tell that Dad hoped I would grab a trowel and join him and Grampa. But I looked at the rich brown soil and could feel it creeping toward me, just dying for a chance to ruin my new clothes.
Instead, I stretched out on the porch swing, happy to see Grampa and Dad together.
Cool morning passed into sticky afternoon. Papá returned with bags of groceries, and I helped him unload the convertible. As I squeezed lemons for a pitcher of lemonade, I watched Dad and Grampa through the kitchen window. I could see that sad look pinch Dad’s face, and a chill skittered up my back, even though the hot, humid air felt like syrup on my skin.
They finally took a break. Dad strolled up onto the porch and sat on the top step. Grampa followed with a grunt and a groan. I poured him a glass of lemonade and sat next to him.
After taking a long sip, Grampa gestured to the flowers that surrounded the house. “All these beauties, and what does this fool boy of mine say are his favorites?”
Papá and I answered together: “Dandelions.” We teased Dad about this every time we visited Grampa.
“Dandelions,” Grampa agreed. “Yup. The nastiest little weed around, and my boy dotes on them.”
“You know why I like ’em,” Dad said. “They’re strong; they can grow anywhere in any soil. They’re the prettiest color in the world, like little suns, and then they turn into little clouds when they go to seed. You can eat the young greens and make wine out of the blossoms and blow wishes on the clocks. Now, if that isn’t the perfect flower, you tell me what is.”
Grampa shook his head and smiled, then turned to me, and his expression turned serious. “You need to get dirty, Eden. Working the earth is the only way to show you love it. When you plant something and help it grow, you can feel the whole world turning under your hands.”
He looked down at his own hands. “I’m the reason you’re named Eden. Your papá wanted to call you Esperanza, but you were such a nice baby I said you should be named after the prettiest garden of all. And you won’t even help your daddy and me plant a pole bean.”
I could feel myself blushing. All of a sudden, I felt like a bad daughter, and a bad granddaughter, and an all-around bad person. How could something that was so important to my dad and Grampa mean so little to me?
“Next time we come out, I’ll help. I promise,” I said. “Not today, though.” I held out my hands to show off the perfect-polish sparkle of my fingernails. “Look — they’re so shiny you can see your reflection ten little times.”
Grampa didn’t look. He just gave me a faint smile and drank his lemonade down in a single, long swallow.
After lunch, Dad and Grampa put the tools away while Papá and I tidied up. Then we said our good-byes. Grampa hugged me and didn’t let go until Papá coughed twice. Grampa stumped back onto the porch and into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind him.
As we walked back to the car, Papá said, “He looks good. Don’t you think? I’ll bet the doctor has it wrong.”
With a quick glance in my direction, Dad shushed Papá. Neither of them said a word all the way back home.
A few weeks later, the phone rang in Papá’s office, where he did the bookkeeping for Dad’s business. I ran to get it, but slammed to a stop when I got to the doorway.
Dad was crouched down against the wall, the phone clenched in his right hand. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he was making a gaspy “Huh huh huh” sound.
Papá rushed by me and into the office. He knelt beside Dad and rocked him like a baby. “I’m so sorry, Abel,” I heard him whisper. “Amado, don’t cry — he’s with your mamá now.”
Finally everything made sense. Dad’s scared look, Grampa’s long hugs, Papá’s remark about the doctor—they had known Grampa was sick. All the clues were there, but I hadn’t wanted to see. Now he was gone, and I’d never have the chance to make a garden with him.
I needed to help Dad, to do something that might take back his tears. But I couldn’t think of anything good enough or important enough. I felt like a balloon with most of the air let out.
One thing was sure — I knew Dad wouldn’t want me to see him like this.
I slid one foot behind the other and backed away as quiet as a shadow. Then I sneaked downstairs and took a long, lonely walk, plodding down the parkway until I reached the art museum. I couldn’t get rid of the cold, empty ache in my heart.
A flash of color caught my eye. At my feet, a dandelion sprouted in the sidewalk’s crack. A dandelion … Dad’s favorite and a lot like him. Strong and useful and beautiful.
I looked at my hands, soft and smooth and lazy. Then I crouched down and poked at the dirt around the stem. Gray, tired soil sniggled under my fingernail and scratched the glossy coral polish.
I eased the flower out of the ground, long root and all, and planted it in one of the art museum’s flower beds. The bold yellow bloom made the other flowers look pale and dull.
And just like that, I knew what I could do to make Dad feel a little better.
I called Papá on my cell and told him my plan. When I finished, he didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “We’ll have to buy you the right clothes.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
The day after Grampa’s funeral I waited for Dad at his job site — a park renovation in Center City. I wore a pair of buttery-soft gloves and the paisley overalls and bright pink tank top Papá had bought for me. My hair was pulled back, and I had a Gardens of Eden cap snugged down over my head.
Dad’s left eyebrow quirked up when he saw me. “Since when do you care about gardening?”
I wanted to say something like I care about gardening because you care about it. Or maybe just I care about you.
But I couldn’t do it. The feelings inside me were so big that the words just got caught in my throat.
Instead I grinned and said, “Since when? Since I need the money. Being a teenager isn’t cheap, you know.” I sent all my heart to him in a silent love-o-gram.
He didn’t answer right away. Then he shook his head and chuckled. “Come on then.” He put his arm around my shoulders, and we walked toward the site trailer. He chuckled again. “I think we’ll start you on fertilizer detail. It’s best to learn from the ground up.”
I almost turned and ran. But when I looked up at Dad and saw the smile on his face, and knew that I was the reason he was smiling, I held tough. After all, nobody said love was easy.
If a dandelion can look gorgeous in the dirt, then so can I.
Ellie Kirk likes to read, garden, and cook. She lives in southeast Pennsylvania, and travels to the Jersey Shore to collect Cape May Diamonds or to the Pocono Mountains to hike (and catch poison ivy). Some of her favorite things are fresh juicy peaches, the color green, having peppermint tea with her mom, and watching scary movies. She is also a world-champion nap-taker.
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