A Single Daffodil

“Good morning, Mrs. Baker!”

I made sure my morning greeting was loud enough for Mrs. Baker to hear through her hearing aid, but not loud enough to wake up the rest of our neighborhood. It was, after all, only eight in the morning.

Mrs. Baker was swallowed up by her oversized, blue dressing robe. The hemming was almost touching her driveway and the tied knot around her waist was hanging much lower than it should be. Her grey-tinted curls were in a big heaping mess of bun that sat on top of her head that slid sideways when she went to pick up the morning paper that sat on the edge of her driveway. Just as she was about to stand up again, I was already pedaling past her yard. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I caught the last of her friendly wave in my direction, before she disappeared behind her neighbor’s untrimmed hedge. I knew that was driving her crazy. She liked having a pretty front yard.

It was a beautiful Friday morning, and also the first day of summer. I was ecstatic. I had every intention of sleeping in after a nauseating finals week full of stress but I just couldn’t do it. The new sense of freedom left me hyper and feverish for a new day. Around seven this morning, I ripped the duvet covers off me, brushed my teeth, grabbed the bunch of daisies I picked the night before and hopped onto my electric blue beach bicycle.

My dirty blonde hair whipped and twisted through the ocean breeze as I sped out of my neighborhood and cruised down Ocean Boulevard boardwalk. Seagulls chirping and swaying above, palm trees shaking their trembling leaves and the distance sounds of cups clinking and spoons twirling milk into freshly brewed coffee was a refreshing sound to hear. It was my personal magic hour in South Beach. Tourists were still asleep in their five star hotels, meaning the locals were out to enjoy their own paradise. It was also early enough to enjoy the last moments of the golden sun before it broke into Florida’s muggy summer heat.

I cut past morning traffic and made a swift turn into the neighborhood adjacent to Ocean Blvd. After a couple of turns throughout the neighborhood, I finally came to a halt outside of 113 Seashell Lane. I threw my right leg over my bicycle and wheeled it into the driveway.

I always visited my Grandpa Gene on Friday mornings, Tuesday evenings and Thursday afternoons. He lived alone, save for his ginger cat, Robin, so I made a point to visit him as much as possible when I didn’t have school or work.

If there was one thing you needed to know about my Grandpa, it was this: Grandpa Gene hated being Grandpa Gene. “I’m not that old!!” He’d declare, “I’m just Gene! Just Gene!”

Well, Just Gene was an artist. A marvelous, impressionist painter --to be more specific-- who could paint anything under the sun and make it into a masterpiece. He liked experimenting, thats for sure. Sometimes you’ll catch him painting a canvas so abstract, you wouldn’t be quite sure how to turn your head. Other times, he dabbled in the art of realism, and you’d catch him in the act of painting a beautiful flower or a portrait of a woman. He loved painting in unusual colors, but his favorite ones always had light tints of grey. You could find him in his sunroom in the early morning, the garden in the late afternoon, and at the kitchen table when sunset was lurking the farthest corners of the sky. He didn’t let anyone or anything prevent him from his artwork, and that was including the trying twitch in his left hand which was evidently, also his painter’s hand. It started when I was ten, meaning he was only sixty-two when it started to bother him. I’ve heard him curse it to hell every now and again when he’d get frustrated that a color didn’t hit the canvas correctly but nowadays, he’s learned to embrace it which makes me happier than the cat’s meow. I didn’t like seeing my father’s father upset. He was the only grandparent I ever grew up to know and love.

But, you know, he was just Gene.

I grabbed the bunch of daisies sitting in the front basket of my bicycle and walked across the stone path and straight for the front door. I could already hear the faint sound of a Billy Holiday song, the sweet olden melody drifting softly throughout the house as I opened the door; his musical taste has always been fixed in the 1940s. Grandpa Gene’s house always had a peculiar smell when I’d walk into the foyer of his small bungalow. It was always a mixture of freshly brewed Cuban coffee and fumes from a new can of acrylic paint. To me, that smelt like home.

“Is that you, Vita?” Grandpa Gene called from the sunroom.

“Yeah, it’s me!” I called back as I headed into kitchen.

“Coffee’s waiting for you, if you’d like it!” He yelled once more from the sunroom.

As always, there was an empty mug waiting next to the full pot of coffee. He always left out a mug by the coffee pot on Saturdays. It was unlikely he’d ever forget I’d be visiting in the mornings. I smiled and replied. “I’ll be in there in a second! I’m just switching out your flowers!”

I grabbed the vase sitting on the counter that was once filled with a dying bunch of purple Asters. I only brought them in last Thursday, but seeing as my grandpa continuously forgets to look after them, they were wilted and lame. I pulled them out, trashed them and re-filled the vase with the fresh daisies I brought over. I knew Grandpa Gene wasn’t exactly a flowers man, but I know he constantly pulls inspiration from the variety I bring him every week. I found this out one time, when I brought ten left-over Birds of Paradise flowers from my work. I waited for a reaction, hoping he’d be excited about how pretty they were. Alas, I was met with a shrug and an indifferent reaction. When I came back a week later, however, he had canvases, pieces of papers, and sketchbooks filled with the same yellows, pinks and blues that were identical to the flowers. I knew from then on that my flowers could always be a fallback of inspiration if he’s ever lacking it in the future.

Once I placed the daisies on the windowsill and poured myself a cup of coffee, I kicked my brown sandals off by the door and wandered into the sunroom.

“Good morning!” I greeted my grandpa with a silly grin, carefully stepping over the ripped out pieces of scrap paper that had unfinished sketches and paintings on them. They littered the entire floor. The sunroom was his office, his playground. The sunroom was also never clean. It was, remarkably, a piece of artwork in itself.

He was sitting at one of many easels that filled the room, a paintbrush tightly gripped in his left hand as he shaded in what could be -but one could never be sure what Grandpa Gene painted theses days - a silhouette of a woman sitting at a table. It was safe to say that he only started the painting this morning.

“Ah, Vita. A good morning to you, as well.” He hummed, still stroking the paintbrush carefully across an empty patch of canvas. It changed to a turquoise color. “I was expecting you much later than this hour. What’s the occasion?”

I joined little Robin the cat on the pillow-covered sofa that sat under the sunroof. I carefully tucked my feet beneath me while balancing the coffee mug between my hands. “I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited about my summer break!”

“I thought you were already on summer break?”

“No, Grandpa.” I sighed, taking another sip of my coffee. I reached over to Robin to give her a scratch behind the ear. She immediately stretched out her paws on impact, purring with delight. “I finished yesterday!”

“Ah, but you live in Miami Beach. You’re always on summer break.” He brought the paintbrush down from the canvas and dipped it into the palette. He offered me a sweet smile while he did this. “Have you seen your father lately?”

“No.” I answered, leaning back into the seat and tilting my head back to face the ceiling windows. The sun rays easily filtered through the glass and glittered warmth onto my closed eyelids and cheeks. “He’s been in San Antonio all week with the team. I think he flew in last night after the game though. You know how he gets around this time of year.”

Grandpa merely grunted in response. I didn’t need to look at him to know he was shaking his head with disappointment. After a couple of seconds, he spoke again. “Your dad is way too busy nowadays. Doesn’t make time for his own damn father either. The only time I see him is when he’s yelling at the players on ESPN.”

I grinned. “You and me both, Gramps. I think I’ll go visit him at practice today. Just to remind him he has a daughter and all that. You know, the yooj’.”

“Remind him that he needs a swift kick in the ass too, while you’re at it.”

I lifted my head quickly enough to catch the cheeky grin on his face.

“He’ll be over to see you soon enough. I’m sure of it.” I stood up and stretched my arms above my head. “In the mean time, you’re stuck with me. Shall I do the dishes while I’m here? Maybe change some lightbulbs? Did you feed Robin yet?”

“I’m only seventy-two years old, Vita.” Grandpa announced as I started for the kitchen once again. “You can change the lightbulbs and feed that stupid scoundrel cat when I’m six feet under the ground!”



I spent the remainder of my morning with Grandpa Gene. I made sure to water the flower beds in the backyard, dust the kitchen cabinets and even sort the mail, much to his dismay. My grandpa wasn’t entirely indisposed but sometimes he can get so lost in his artwork that he’ll neglect some of the little things that need to be taken care of.

Around midday, I slipped my sandals back on, gave Robin one last scratch behind the ear and kissed Grandpa Gene goodbye. He didn’t live very far from where my dad worked so I decided to bike it, even if it was a little hotter than this morning.

Once I cycled out to the main street, it was clearly more alive and muddled with tourists. As I carefully weaved through traffic and pedaled across the bridge, I could already feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. The sun was even burning my skin through my loose cotton tank top and denim shorts. I didn’t care much for fashion in the summertime. It was too hot to wear anything else but bathing suits, shorts and tank tops.

I parked my bike right inside the restricted area behind the American Airlines arena. It wasn’t hard for me to get past security since I was on a first name basis with all of them.

You see, the thing about my dad’s job is...well. It is the most peculiar thing of all. Many people I’ve met often don’t believe me when I tell them what my dad does for a living. It takes a lot of convincing, and I don’t blame them because it is, after all, a pretty far-fetched piece of information.

My dad is absolutely nothing like Grandpa Gene -- he’s quite the opposite, actually. While Grandpa grew up using his right brain, my dad thrived on the left. He loved math, physics, accuracy, solving problems, analytics, and what he constantly used throughout his career, strategy. He’s a man of order and logic. It’s what makes the man tick. Give him a rubrics cube, and he’ll solve it in two minutes. Or, you could give him a NBA basketball team, and he’ll lead them to win the series, three years in a row.

In this case, he was given the Miami Heat basketball team.

Some might call him a beacon of hope, or the second coming of Jesus. Others might also call him satan, maybe even a catalyst to the next upcoming apocalypse -I think I heard that last one from a die-hard Lakers fan on ESPN. That one, by far, was my favorite accusation.

But to me, he was just good ol’ dad.

There was a lot of commotion when I reached the basketball court inside the arena, but that was to be expected. The basketball team just got back from their quarter-finals in San Antonio, where they beat the Spurs with absolute ease. They only had a couple of days to prepare for the next seven games against the Chicago Bulls. Game one starts in this very arena on Sunday.

I only had a flight of stairs to jog down before I reached the court floor. I spotted my dad on the opposite side of the court, pointing to a clipboard aggressively as he described the next play to his assistant coach, Chris. Instead of interrupting him, I grabbed a spare basketball off the rack and joined the players by the basketball net.

“Vita comes up behind Lebron!” I exclaimed loudly, immediately grabbing the attention of all the players. I dribbled the ball past Lebron James. Dwayne Wade, our other star player, whipped around in my direction and grinned as I side-stepped his figure. “Comes up around Wade, dodges him! And she shoots...” I go through the motions I’ve been taught so many times over the years. I flicked my wrist, let the ball roll off my fingertips and finally, the beautiful sound of the swish. It was like clockwork. “Scores a two-pointer! Vita Spoelstra goes all the way!!”

“Look at this girl.” Dwayne Wade laughed, clapping loudly. “Thinkin’ she all grown!”

“It’s our mini-Spoelstra!” Lebron James jogged over and wrapped me into a tight, sweaty hug. It was comparable to hugging a grizzly bear. Or Big Foot. “It’s no wonder she got skill.”

“I think you need to get that dirt off my shoulders.” I smirked, tilting my shoulder in his direction. The Jay-Z reference was not lost on him. He gladly played along and wiped my shoulders off.

“We should get her to play the finals instead of you, Wade.” Chris Bosh, another star player on the team, easily made a three pointer from where he was standing. I felt like a midget in comparison to his six foot seven stature. “Then maybe we’ll actually make more points in a shorter amount of time.”

Lebron let out a low whistle while I covered my mouth with surprise. Dwayne narrowed his eyes at Chris. “What’s that suppose to mean, bitch?”

“Alright, alright, ladies!” I intervened, jokingly wedging myself between them with my arms stretched out. They towered over me without difficulty. “I know I got skill but let’s not turn on each other. We have a couple of Chi-town bulls to annihilate! Take your beef elsewhere, ya hear me?”

Dwayne kept his eyes narrowed, sucking in his lips and pointing his finger at a snickering Bosh. He hummed. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”

When Ray Allen caught Dwayne’s attention and passed the ball to him, I punched Chris Bosh in the stomach. He barely winced. I swear these guys were cyborgs. “You really know how to get under his skin, dude.”

He laughed, slinging his arm around my shoulders. It was equivalent to a ton of bricks hitting my back; the man didn’t know his own strength. “I can’t help it, Veedz. I love getting a rise out of him.” He led me towards my dad, who finally looked away from the group of men he was talking to. “Yo, Coach!” Bosh yelled to get his attention. “I swear your daughter be better at this game than us!”

I rolled my eyes and pushed Bosh off me. “Get outta here.”

“Are you distracting my players from practicing their jump shots, Vita?” My dad raised an eyebrow at me as he pushed back the tails of his navy sports coat with his wrist, placing his hands on his hips. It was the classic ‘Erik Spoelstra stance’.

I shrugged innocently. “I was just showing them a thing or two on the court, Pops. You should be proud!”

He rolled his eyes and motioned for me to come over to him. As I walked off the court, he pointed at Chris Bosh. “Work on your line-ups.”

“You got it, Coach!” Chris Bosh saluted him before turning on his heel and rejoining the rest of his team.

“Sorry I haven’t called in a while.” My dad pulled me into a quick hug, kissing the top of my head as he did so. “As you can see, everything’s been a little hectic.”

I gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to come by and congratulate you on the quarter final win. Not long now until the actual finals.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “We’re not nearly as ready as I need us to be. Last night’s game was a close one. We’ll be here all night practicing possible game strategies for Sunday’s game.”

“Oh! That reminds me.” I pulled out my phone to re-read my best friend’s texts from last night. “Sophia and Jayden want to come to the game. That won’t be a problem, right?”

My dad gave me a flat look before turning around. “Chris!” He yelled at his assistant coach. “Vita plus two seats for Tuesday! Reserve them for the floor.”

“Got it!” Chris yelled back, thrusting a thumbs up.

“You’re the best, dad.” I grinned, texting a confirmation to Sophia.

“Just make sure Jayden doesn’t show up in our rival’s jersey like he did last time.” He wagged his finger at me before pointing it in Lebron’s direction, who was lining up his power dunks. “It took a lot of convincing of the beast to not beat him up.”

I let out a giggle, remembering quite fondly how terrified Jayden looked when Lebron James charged him after spotting him in a New York Knicks jersey at a home game last year. “He won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl.” He reached up and gave my shoulder a squeeze. He was about to say something else but one of his assistants called for him.

“Go, do your thing.” I assured him. “I have to get ready for work, anyways. See ya on the flip side?”

“Of course. We’ll do dinner sometime this week?”

I knew that would never happen, but I nodded anyways.

He started walking away with his damn clipboard when I called after him again. “Oh, and Dad?”

He turned to look at me. “What’s up?”

“Give Grandpa a call, will you?” I raised up my own phone and tapped on the screen for emphasis. “I think he misses you.”

Dad rolled his eyes again, proving that he didn’t believe me. “Yeah, right.”

I never understood the resistance he had towards Grandpa Gene; he was always so hesitant about interaction. It was some serious deep-routed issues that existed before I even came into the picture. Alas, I never cut my dad some slack.

I gave him a flat look. “Dad.”

He waved me off. “Yeah, yeah, fine. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

I sighed heavily and walked back towards the court where the rest of the players were stretching for their next set of warm-ups.

I gave a couple of them high-fives as I walked past. When I spotted Lebron, I jumped over Norris Cole’s stretched out legs on the floor, and scooted around Ray Allen. “Hey, LB? Get your fiance to text me a list of flowers she wants for your wedding! I need to start outsourcing greenhouses in other states if she wants a more complicated selection.”

He was sitting on the floor, drinking a Gatorade when I walked up to him. He nodded and reached up for his own high-five. I hit him square in the palm, causing a loud SNAP!.

“No problem, Veedz.” He reached for his left foot and pulled his torso towards it while he yelled after my retreating figure. “You comin’ to the Sunday game?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” I shouted back. After a couple of more goodbyes with the rest of the team, I jumped up the flight of stairs two at a time and exited the arena.