Writings: My Family

My family gives me carrot cake and orange tulips for my birthday this year. The tulips are beautiful with tangerine petals that gleam a pearly purple hue atop tall stalks. My father tells me his favorite flowers are gladiolas, which he explains are like irises but not as delicate. He says his father also appreciated fresh cut flowers like these. I did not know any of this, but I am not surprised as I am like my father in many ways.

It is just my father at home this trip back to my hometown. He and my mother have been out in California for the past 7 weeks helping my sister with her first baby. He has just returned; my mother is still not back but will return in a few days too. I tell my father that I don't need candles on the cake but he puts a few on there anyway and we video call my mother and sister through the computer; they sing me happy birthday from the west coast. The baby, just 6 weeks old, is sleeping against my mother's shoulder. He opens one eye to see what the commotion is all about. The attention shifts to the baby for a moment and I am relieved as I often do not know how to act at the center of attention. My father says I am a person who thinks before she speaks, and that this is often a good thing. I reply, yes sometimes it is a good thing. My father and I are quiet kind of people in general; we do not use words to excess in our family. The cake has been kept cool, but it tastes of warm-spice and smooth cream. We save half the cake for my mother when she returns home.

In my parents' absence the house has collected dust and bugs. Usually my homecomings are welcomed with polished floors and lavender scented breezes fluttering the blinds of open windows. I never really consciously registered the clean counters or the rolled and plumped sofa cushions, but my mother knows these things are part of the warm embrace of family.

I did not do many chores as a child. My mother was a homemaker so we took for granted the home she created since it is easy to take those things for granted. And as parents it is natural to give unconditionally to your children, even to the extent of spoiling them, without the expectation that one day they may realize all they have been given.

I kneel beside a basin full of hot water and soap and amateurishly splash out a fair amount of water while wringing the washcloth. I do not tell my father I am cleaning the floors or else he would try to help. I turn the water dirty as I polish away the dust and dullness until the tiles sparkle and the hardwood glistens, like the way they usually do and the way I want them to when my mother comes back from California. I give each room the same scrub down, changing the heavy bin of water between each room. Not even half-way through I cannot tell if the water on the floor is from the basin or the rivulets of perspiration running into my eyes, down the tip of my nose. As I am now beginning to collect decades in addition to years this birthday, my knees and lower back muscles are killing me; I wonder how my parents manage to do this. However when I am finished the house shines with lemon freshness, and I am exhausted but satisfied with the work. I think Mom would have done it better, but now she will come home to a clean house. I think to myself how I hope my sister's child, who we have all fallen in love with so fast and so deeply, will come to know the happiness of giving that comes with this family's love.