As I push against its ridged surface, the makeshift door leading to the back of the store swings open. Old, empty flower pots line the stained wooden walls, stacked on top of one another. A dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickers on and off, bringing light to a four-step ladder that my dad constructed when we first opened the shop. I take the familiar steps up.
Bang, bang, bang. Dad’s calloused fingers hold the final nail in place, each stroke of the hammer burying it deeper into the wood.
“Ladder’s finished, guys.” Cathy and I peer at his handiwork. “It leads up to a space upstairs! You guys can decorate it and hang out here once the store opens up.”
Dust fills my eyes as I peer into the murky depths of the cubby. The memoirs of my childhood emerge from the darkness. The corner where my sister and I stacked our books. The carpet and pillows where we would sleep when Mom and Dad had to work deep into the night. The extension cable where we’d connect our lamp and charge our video games. Much of the first year of the store’s existence was spent in this cubby. It was my home, away from home.
The steps creak and moan as I travel back down. They know it’s likely my last time down their forgotten rungs. They cry a mournful goodbye.
I make my way into the storefront of Green Wood Flowers. Once teeming with the chatter of customers, the store is quiet.
Hidden away in the corner of a quiet town, its vibrant colors always catch my eye. We pull over and shut off the ignition. Red, magenta, ginger, green, white.
The shop is alive. The small space is crowded with hydrangeas, roses, lilacs, peonies, and orchids. Branches covered in moss and leaves flow down from the wall pointing every which way. At the very center is a small tree grounded in a rusted pot, surrounded by moss. Each stem, each leaf, each splash of color sings a song of a world far away. No longer am I on 14 Pondfield Rd, but deep inside a woodland forest.
I forget the calls from Dad at midnight telling me I’ll have to stay another night with a family friend. I forget the light in Cathy’s eyes dimming when she realizes it’s not Mom and Dad picking us up from the bus stop but another unfamiliar face. I forget realizing that the parent guest speaker at kindergarten story-time day was just Anthony’s mom again with another rendition of “Green Eggs and Ham.” I hated “Green Eggs and Ham.” I forget the loneliness, the anger, the bitterness, the jealousy.
Click. Mom turns the key and locks the door, her hands bearing the marks of seven years of thorns, wet flower stems, and soil. Green Wood Flowers did well after those first few years and we’ve moved the store to a bigger space, an achievement representing the dedication of my parents. Those long hours paid off. And yet, the car ride to our new store remains silent.
The sun rises in the distance.