Flower Shop

My grandparents once had a flower shop, located in a humble building with questionable structural integrity, nestled off on a fittingly named Main Street. 

A man from blue-collar roots and an intellectual woman whose life was filled with challenges -  a love story was built upon dreams for their future. Their “I dos” were promises to do whatever it would take to make a life for themselves. Deciding to embark on a business venture together may have been a choice they made early on, or it may have been an opportunity that fell into their lap; I unfortunately do not know the true answer.  Nonetheless, “business owners” were the title they wore with pride. They had a flower shop, another place to call their own. 

A community within a larger community, a haven in an uncertain world; something comforting in something so simple, something beautiful hidden in the ordinary. 

A family-run business in a small town; the worn-out carpet in the entryway was a testament to the number of people who walked in, the bells on the door announcing their presence. An order may be placed, a flower arrangement being picked up, or simply someone who came in to see what was the reason why our business lasted so long. Flowers are meant to be admired, but I promise that they don’t reveal any of the secrets. 

Most of the customers were other locals in the town; they watched my family put their blood, sweat, and tears into making a business work. From the greenhouse gardens that my grandfather tended to as a child, to the grocery store and mini greenhouse he opened as his first soiree into the business world, to the auto shop where many of my family members had their first jobs, to the flower shop reminiscent of a mom-and-pop shop. 

While we all witnessed my grandparents’ work ethic as the pressures mounted, only the trusted few caught glimpses of the struggles they never told me about. The piles of bills to both pay and organize, the tensions of unresolved conflicts, the worries about the financial stability, the sacrifices made by the both of them. The conflicts that made them stronger, the challenges that left scars and not open wounds. They kept me in the dark about those ones, protecting my youth from the brutal truths. 

Sometimes, we were alone. Other times, we belonged.  

Once, we were not the only Asians, there used to be a whole community of us within this small town. A community banded together by open arms and shared experiences; first-generation members knew the sacrifices they made to come here, and the second-generation struggled over the effects of displacement and trying to grow up in a world that was not always friendly to them. It was a time of adversity, but at least they had each other. Everyone was comforted by leaning on one another, knowing after they faced the cruel realities of the world, they could head over to a friend’s place and fall into familiarities of indoor slippers, chipped china plates, and a rice cooker as white noise.

Slowly, everyone’s lives were evolving and they trickled out of the town, leaving to build a life away from their humble beginnings. We were now the outsiders, the contrasts between the locals and us becoming ever more prominent. But there were many who had been there from the beginning and looked past the surface, piercing through the usually gated exterior to get to the beating heart and soul. Genuine friendships were made by my grandparents, maintained by the following generations by waves of hello and favors done when the times got tough. We’ve earned the town’s respect, a privilege we don’t waste.

Business owners were an honorable title, but the best accomplishment was being parents and their reward was becoming grandparents. 

The flower shop was theirs, but selfishly, it also felt like mine. My elementary school years were spent in that old, crumbling building; a typical business day would sometimes have to pivot to accommodate my grandparents needing to watch me. A playground in some aspects, a museum in others, it was a place for exploration, creativity, and memories. 

I would use all of my small body’s might to open the metal door of the walk-in cooler in the back, where we held the variety of flowers in construction buckets filled with water and plant food. My eyes were admiring each flower like it was a precious piece of art, my grandpa’s gaze intently focused on ensuring the door wouldn’t shut and lock me in. The workstation for customizing decorations was where some of my beginning creative endeavors occurred; my first go at spray paint cans to color baby’s breath flowers and learning how to tie a perfect ribbon around a vase (*spoiler alert, I still struggle with that). I was allowed to simply take any vase off the display shelves and given a free pass to make my own flower arrangements, even if my grandparents knew that it would be a few things from their inventory they would have to take into account. Truthfully speaking, my arrangements weren’t as elegant as the professional ones nor did they really justify dwindling down the supplies we had, but inventory will eventually be replaced, moments like those would never come back. 

My grandparents would smile as they watched me focus on choosing the right color combo, taking a moment to admire my arrangement once it was done. On a few occasions, they handed me the price tag gun and let me mark up my imperfect works, storing them in their display area. A customer once bought one of my quirky bouquets; my grandfather apparently beamed with great pride.

It started as a family business and it would remain that way, the only thing that would end our journey is when the flower shop would inevitably close. 

The employees were family, no questions about that. All women with strong mentalities and charismatic charm. How their hands would suffer from the pricks of thorns or be calloused from the constant maintenance of the shop, but they still managed to craft the most beautiful masterpieces. They treated all holidays with poise; Valentine’s Day was an abundance of roses, reds, pinks, whites, cursive, and hearts; Mother’s Day often meant lilies in vases and sweet little messages. Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving were wildcards, but at least the decorations for those were fun to add and spice up a usual centerpiece. They handled it all with grace and tenacity, two facets towards success. 

All of them had families of their own, often sharing stories of their children who were growing up too fast. They had a life outside of a crumbling building, yet a part of me wanted to believe that the flower shop was another world for them; a little sanctuary within a bigger world. But sometimes the worlds would blur, as they would take a vacation from one world and bring only their baggage of burdens to the flower shop. Maybe that’s why they were so willing to stay and work for two elderly individuals, they had a soft spot for the imperfect families. 

Change may be inevitable, but it isn’t always easy to accept. 

The building still exists right off of Main Street, though the flower shop is now long gone. A new business fills the space, another small family-run place that is thriving. Still no-doubt crumbling from the inside-out, but the appearance has gone through a transformation. We may say not to judge a book by its cover, but the store now looks more welcoming. The carpet at the entryway was replaced by hardwood floors, meaning that I will never have the chance to watch and see how long it will take to fade.

The walk-in cooler now stores groceries, though the metal door is still as heavy as I remember it being. The display area now holds candies, the bright colors of sugary treats attracting the young kids who come in with their parents. The dichotomy of family members would be completing errands with seriousness and their kinds just wanting to find ways to entertain themselves. And, with all of the upgrades, the only floral scent that permeates comes from the generic floral-scented floor cleaner.

A new family navigates the challenges we once faced; they serve a loyal community within the small town. Another displaced community who also rely on one another to provide a sense of stability as they try and survive in a bigger context. They invite us along for the ride, knowing we’ve been through the same thing. Unlike us, they prefer loud music and family gatherings that last until dawn, but there is a familiarity in their welcomings. They laugh and enjoy each other’s company, momentarily leaving their worries at the door. 

Most of the locals remember who I am, some have forgotten and when I re-introduce myself, their eyes soften as they remark at how I remind them of my grandparents. They are pleasant and kind in our interactions, a deep sense of gratitude runs in me regarding how they still admire those who came before me after all these years. I am now one of the few remaining representatives of both my community and my family, creating an unspoken pressure I put on myself. The work ethic of our family, the beauty of our community, the maintaining of a community friendship; they all fall into my hands. I essentially become my once-purchased flower arrangement: nothing perfect, but has its own beauty and story. 

My grandparents are no longer here. The world is vastly different now; they witnessed some of the unruly changes before they decided to go to the stars. A world that isn’t necessarily new, but not familiar by any means. They both live on within me, as I navigate this world utilizing what I’ve learned so far. Obstacles of momentous difficulty are here to remind me of my grandparents’ life stories, how they persevered through their obstacles to get to a point of life they were content with. 

I live not just for myself but for those before me, going after my dreams for the sake of both my own happiness and the hope that my loved ones on the other side will continue to beam with pride. For my grandparents, their granddaughter is carrying on their legacy, a story that once started in a flower shop, but certainly does not end there. 

Author: Ayako Kiyota

Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B.

Image source: Francisco Suarez, Unsplash