I remember my first home, when I was three years old. It was a small apartment on the second floor with a lovely and spacious balcony. When my mom was busy in the kitchen she let me stay on the balcony watching the kids playing in the street. I could see at least a few hundred yards away. On that balcony I played sometimes with my two sisters. My eldest one was seven years old and when my mom was absent she was like a mother to us. The balcony was a great hobby place for my father. After his work he used to grow carnations in flower boxes. His carnations were red, pink and white; everyone who saw them admired them for their beauty.
He took care of them with so much love, precision, and devotion. He dealt meticulously with his flowers like a mother taking care of her baby. Many times I sat on the floor of the balcony for hours observing him and his flowers with patience. He was always doing something on that balcony. He was watering them every day, cleaning the balcony floor, sometimes clipping the wilted leaves, changing the potting soil and when the stems were thick, strong and high enough, he started his enhancement operation like a surgeon.
My dad took a tiny knife and with his left hand he held the stem of the carnation and measured the height. Then he made a small mark on the stem with his finger. Afterwards he made an incision with the knife, just enough to insert a grain of barley. Then he bandaged the stem with a small bandage made from textile leftovers from my mom's sewing. His job was then to water the plants and to take care of them. “No one should touch them," he said to mom. Every day, when he came home from work he went straight to the balcony.
Mom used the tell us, “Do not touch daddy's flowers.” For us it was a fascinating experience to watch how the small stems were growing and making flowers. When the carnations had grown big enough, my dad enjoyed watching them every day. We the kids did too. One day my elder sister, who loved dad very much, had a great idea. Wanting to help my dad she cut the carnations from their stems one by one and arranged them on the floor. She believed that he would be very pleased to see them that way.
When mom realized what my sister had done, she became completely mute, as she didn't know what to say. The shock was too strong and we all awaited dad's arrival with emotion and apprehension. My sister didn't understand why we were so quiet without a word of appreciation. She couldn't realize why no one gave her a compliment. When my dad arrived he went straight to the balcony, as usual. When he saw his flowers lying on the floor like dead animals he was shocked at first. He looked towards the street, to see if there was no one from the neighbors' children who could have done it. Then he entered the living room and looked at mom in silence but we all awaited an exclamation or a punishment. Then he looked left and right and mom, who always taught us to say the truth no matter what, looked at dad and said, “We have no bad neighbors in our area,” then with a nice tone she continued, “No outsider did this great job, only your lovely daughter Clémence. My dad's face changed from tense to a smile and then he said, “Do I have a better flower than my lovely daughter?” My elder sister smiled and hugged dad strongly.
Copyright 2013 Emile Tubiana
