This fictional short story was the result of combining two writing prompts. The first was for my writing group and the prompt came from Psalm 91:11 (“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways”). The second came from a writing challenge for the Southern Christian Writers Conference asking for a fictional story centered around a birthday. Here’s what I came up with! I hope you enjoy it.
Kayla was so focused on the purple hyacinths withering next to her mimosa, she didn’t notice the imposing hulk of a figure suddenly appearing next to her at the bar. She was barely holding it together as it was, and she wasn’t eager to be caught in small talk with the burly, leather-clad biker who had just taken up residence two stools over in the otherwise empty airport lounge. She was usually outgoing and enjoyed hearing strangers’ stories, but the weight of her grief was strangling her spirit.
Is it even fair to call it grief when she hasn’t died? Kayla wondered. She took a sip of her overpriced drink and pretended to read her book. March 19th sure looked different today than she had planned.
“Business or pleasure?” The gravelly voice practically barked at her from two stools over.
“Neither,” she replied without looking up from the sentence she had reread at least twenty times.
“Well now I got an even bigger hankerin’ to know what you’re up to,” the voice said in a drawl that sounded a lot like home.
Kayla turned on her stool in his direction, planning to politely shut this down before it got started but was taken aback by his eyes. They stood out, clear and blue, on his worn and whiskered face. His gray beard was wiry and impressively long. He could pass for Santa’s younger, more rebellious brother who preferred Harleys to reindeer.
“I’m going to visit my grandmother.” She found herself answering his question before she even realized she wasn’t shutting anything down. There was something about those eyes that made her want to open up. “Normally, it would be my favorite day of the year. This year is—” her voice trembled, and she took a breath to steady herself. “This year is different.”
“Aw, kid. Sounds like you’re having a bit of a rough go. We’ve got some time to kill, and I need a refill on my coffee. Will you do an old man a favor and tell me about it?”
She hesitated, saw the kindness in his eyes, and began to talk in spite of herself.
Kayla was born on Mamaw’s 50th birthday. As she held her tiny granddaughter, Mamaw declared this was the best gift of her whole life. A tradition began that day and every March 19th would find them celebrating their special day together. No matter how many miles separated them, this day would find them laughing, having tea, and buying each other bouquets of colorful hyacinths that always seemed to bloom just in time for their day.
Last year, they rocked away the afternoon on the front porch of a South Georgia tea room. When they realized this year’s March 19th would not only find them celebrating their 25th and 75th birthdays but also the first day of Spring, they decided they must go all out and make it the best birthday adventure yet. But before any of their plans could be finalized, Mamaw was diagnosed with acute onset dementia. At first, she had good days and bad days. But now there were only bad days, and she didn’t remember even her closest friends and family.
Kayla felt like she had been in mourning for something she hadn’t officially lost yet. She was being torn apart in a devastating tug-of-war of the inevitable and the not quite yet. She had consumed books and research articles like the last morsels of food in front of a starving man. She was desperate to have one more special day before Mamaw was lost to her for good. In her research, she found that often a familiar object, song, or smell could trigger deeply buried memories and lead to precious moments of clarity. She knew it wasn’t a guarantee, but she had convinced herself that the sight and smell of Mamaw’s favorite hyacinths might be just the trigger she needed.
She would give anything in this world to have one last chance for Mamaw to know she was there. Kayla would hold her close, breathe in her Coco Mademoiselle perfume and commit it to memory. She would tell Mamaw how much she loved her and how this world was all the better for her presence in it. She desperately wanted Mamaw to know she was seen and loved. Maybe even more, she was desperate to feel seen and loved by Mamaw one last time.
Tears escaped Kayla’s eyes as she held up the limp flowers. “But see? They’re dead,” she told the man at the bar. “I tried wrapping the stems in wet paper towels. I tried refreshing them in cups of water. But the layover was just too long. They’re not going to make it. I’m not going to make it.”
All this while, the burly man had sat as still as a statue perched on a barstool and listened to Kayla’s story, his coffee untouched. He took a deep breath and looked at her with those blue eyes.
“Darlin’, I can almost hear your little heart breakin’ and I hate you’re going through this,” he said quietly, his bark long gone. “If every good memory were a brick, you could build a dang mansion. Life is just chock full of the pretty and the pain, ain’t it? No one escapes the one or the other. When we’re going through the ugly times, we gotta hang on to the beautiful. Even if it’s only by our fingernails.”
He shifted his weight and slid off the barstool. “Sweetheart, I wanna thank you for sharin’ your story with me. And I just want you to know somethin’ else. God sees you. He knows what you’re goin’ through. He loves you and you’re never alone. No matter how lonely you might feel, he’s always with you, Kayla.”
She took his hand and thanked him, suddenly feeling lighter. As she watched him slowly walk away, she wondered when she had told him her name. She didn’t remember doing any introductions. As she turned back to the bar, she froze. Her entire body erupted in goosebumps. There on the bar were her book, her drink, and a bouquet of perfectly fresh, gorgeous purple hyacinths.
Ashley Doyle Pooser 