Thunderbolts And Flowers
A daughter’s wedding day can evoke so many vivid memories…
As the limousine glides along I sneak a glance at my daughter, Emma, who’s sitting here next to me in her creamy white dress.
With her delicate features and sleek golden hair, Emma turns heads wherever she goes. But what makes my daughter special is the fact that she’s as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.
I just hope Oliver realises this.
When we reach the church there’s a bit of a hold-up as the bridesmaids get out of the car in front. All pale lemon silk and glowing cheeks, the two older bridesmaids make me think of shiny golden buttercups.
And the little ones in their white dresses – they’re the daisies, of course!
People often remind me of flowers; it was the chrysanthemums which started it. One day many years ago, while I was doing a bit of gardening, a sudden breeze came up.
Then out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.
It was the tall, large-headed chrysanthemums standing against the back fence; they’d begun to sway. They moved gently at first, then more strongly, heads bobbing animatedly as though talking to each other.
Walking down the garden I noticed a couple of chrysanthemums slightly apart from the others, standing very still.
OK, so they were closer to the fence and out of the breeze, but these flowers were also out of the conversation.
Yes, just like people, I thought.
As the organ strikes up and we begin to walk down the aisle, I suddenly wish that with just a click of the fingers I could freeze this moment.
I’d like to hear Emma say one last time that she’s doing the right thing.
Twelve months! They hardly know each other.
My Emma… if only people knew her as I do. Even as a teenager, when her friends were running wild, Emma would stay in, saying she had homework to do.
As expected, she did well at school, went on to university and now has a successful career in journalism.
One day, when she was interviewing a local businessman, his son walked in.
Oliver took one look at Emma and that was it.
“Being hit by a thunderbolt,” they call it, and judging by the sparkle in Emma’s eyes when she came home, I guess she was hit too.
Thirty minutes later in the church garden, the photographer is clicking away – different people, different groups – and through it all Oliver has eyes only for Emma.
Does he see her as a flower, as I do?
A flower which is one of the loveliest you will find in any garden. My Emma is the snowdrop, and believe me, her long white dress has nothing to do with it.
Like the snowdrop, Emma’s beauty is of the delicate kind. Yet beneath all that pale prettiness there lies an inner strength, as she just accepts what life throws at her and gets on with it.
At no stage does Emma lose her focus, just like the snowdrop as it fights its way through the ice and snow.
As for the thunderbolt – it’s nothing new.
In our day we used to call it love at first sight.
That’s the way it was for me and my Lily – though I’ve never seen my wife as a lily, not in the floral sense.
No, Lily and I have always been those two chrysanthemums, standing together out of the breeze – just the two of us against the world.
I was so touched today by what Lily said as we stood by the church door, waiting to walk down the aisle together, all three of us.
“Emma,” she whispered. “You know your father is always with us, don’t you?”
“Of course,” our daughter replied. “And Mum, in the car just now… I’d swear I could smell those cough sweets he used to suck.”
“I know, love,” said Lily. “You know, I could smell it too.”
I couldn’t ask for more. So be happy, Emma, be happy my darling, and keep an eye on your mum for me.
I’ll see you again soon – and perhaps one day you may see me.
Our My Weekly Favourites series of feel-good fiction from our archives continues on Mondays and Thursdays. Look out for the next one.
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