Late Bloomer
On a Sunday morning in May, we wait to bloom gold. The five of us form a circle in the living room, a coffee table with lemon meringue pie in the center. Liana and Daniel take up the green couch. Peas in a pod. Our parents take to the loveseat, the cushions already marked with their grooves. I’m in a chair of my own.
As the sunlight travels through the room, the blooming begins. Liana’s green frayed stems lead to petals unwrapping in mid-air. Her hair shimmers in layers of gold over her shoulders and the sun shines on her petals. It’s a domino effect: Daniel has a head full of gold poppies in minutes. Pruning his stems in the winter was a good idea, because the petals stay close to his head and tickle his ears.
Our father has a few gold blossoms speckling his hair, but on his head it’s mostly green stems. Each year, as he ages, there are fewer blooms. No one says anything about the loss. My mother praises the straining color and we smile and nod in agreement.
My mother’s hair is yellow daisies. The petals should be white, but she’s painted her roots a young yellow. They stand upright until she pins them down with a headband so the blossoms curl upward. They bounce as she shakes her head from side to side.
“Those flowers look old. Everything is too yellow,” Daniel says. Liana laughs. My mother’s eyes meet mine and a lump forms in my throat.
Our father barks at them to stop it.
“Daniel is obviously joking,” my mother says, meeting my eyes again.
By now, everyone is licked by sunshine. As the youngest, it should be time for my blooms. Everyone turns to me. Four pairs of eyes peeking through a yellow field at high noon. It’s so bright I fear the light will swallow me.
“Are they there?” I ask their blank faces.
“No, just those long stems,” Liana sighs.
“We can wait,” our father says, reaching for his newspaper to work on the crossword. It’s a Sunday morning tradition. Liana and Daniel always get their guesses out before I have a chance to think.
“How about some dessert?” my mother suggests.
I busy myself with cutting the pie and placing a slice on each white plate to distract myself from the pressure building in my chest. The room is filled with the family’s sweet and floral scent and too much light.
By the time every plate is covered in crumbs and the crossword is complete, nothing has changed. I try to fit my fingers through my thick stems, but they don’t go through. The sword-like leaves scratch my back.
Liana and Daniel pick at the lint on their sweaters, take selfies with their golden halos, scroll on their phones. Once it’s clear I will not bloom, we move on to the photo.
We line up outside in the sunshine like we do every year. I search for the camera washed in light as I smile wide. My eyes water.
After another year is documented, Liana plucks one of Daniel’s stems (Hey! Oh, grow another!) and offers me a golden poppy.
“Maybe next year,” she says.
We don’t mention it’s my sixteenth spring. That no one in our family has ever been three years late. Especially not on our father’s side. I twirl the stem in my fingers like the poppy is a tiny twirling ballerina.
My father pats me on the back. “Another year of enjoying childhood.”
Daniel coughs a word at me I don’t hear and Liana pushes him as they walk away.
My mother takes me by the arm. “I was a late bloomer, too. It’ll happen. I know it,” she says as she picks the poppy out of my hands and places it behind my ear.
“I hope so.” I think of how I’ll be golden. How everything will change.
“Will you be upset if you get daisies?” my mother asks me.
“Never, mom! No,” I tell her as I force myself to smile. We don’t speak about how we are excluded from their golden world. We don’t talk about how badly we want to be in it.
She smiles back and squeezes my arm. As soon as I’m alone, the poppy falls out from behind my ear and I’m back to stems.
The next morning, I think of the juniors and seniors, even some sophomores, who will have a head full of soft petals to show off. I step into a dress and avoid the mirror.
Gold blooms shine bright at the table where a plate of waffles steams in the middle. As I sit down, ready to take a bite, the table chatter stops. Everyone is staring at my head and for the first time, I don’t feel the stems poke my back.
“Blooms?” I ask the room.
My mother turns around and gasps, dropping a plate. Ceramic flies. Liana and Daniel’s mouths are O’s. My father is devoid of color but for speckles of gold.
Blooms.
I rush to the mirror, imagining the crown around my head. The color hiding all along.
But there is no gold. The straight stems lead to what looks like clouds, deep blue-purple clouds, that fan around my head. I watch as they unfurl and open.
Thunderstorms. Lobster tails. Van Gogh. Irises.
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