Heather Anne

I spent fifteen minutes at the florist today arguing with a man about what flower is best for an eleven-year-old flautist making her debut at a middle school Christmas concert. I said, how about daisies? He said, overdone. I said, daisies are friendly. And he said, daisies are no flower for a young girl on the cusp of womanhood. I said I’d just take the daisies, please, and never say cusp of womanhood to me ever, ever again.

When I attend non-basketball functions for my little league kids, I always take flowers, because my Manmaw always brought flowers to my chorus concerts and elementary plays when I was a kid. Manmaw was the only person bringing flowers, so I was the only person getting flowers, and they made me feel special and beautiful, sophisticated and entirely mature.

“I cannot accompany you today, children,” I would say when my friends would invite me to McDonald’s after we performed. “I have to retire to my abode and place my tulips—”

“Lilies,” my sister would correct me.

“Lilies in a vase.”

I sat through an hour-long concert tonight, and after it was over, I hugged my little, little-leaguer, and handed her the flowers. Her eyes grew wide and she placed her hand dramatically on her chest. “For me?” she asked.

I nodded and grinned. “For you.”

I am the oldest of four granddaughters and the only one who still rides on Manmaw’s meal ticket at family reunions. Oh, my sister and my two cousins, they cook and clean and do laundry and who knows what all. When it is required of them to bring a dish for sharing, they bring it. When people ask me what I brought, I seek out Manmaw’s casserole dishes on the table, and point.

I follow behind Manmaw in line for food so I can make sure I get the stuff she brought; I know it will be better than all the other grandmothers’ food, and it’s not like I make a show of it. “Did you cook this? Did you cook this?” I always whisper, and if her hands weren’t full of homemade pie, she’d probably be wise to smack me. But she doesn’t. She just smiles and whispers that there’s an extra pie in the big, blue cooler. An extra pie for me.

Cusp of womanhood? Yes, indeed.