Michael D. Davis.

My parents have been married for over forty years, which has spawned many stories. I would be neglectful in my narration if I didn’t mention the story of the cupcake and the bush.

My father, the old one, is not a romantic type. Aniversaries, Valentines, and other days of note usually come and go without a blink. A token of affection from the old one is a rarity. One particular February 14 of a bygone year, my father went to church. My Ma did not, as she worked weekends. After this particular church service, beverages and treats were had. The food was themed to match the day, and cupcakes were served with red frosting, heart sprinkles, along with red heart adorned napkins.

The old one, having done nothing else to celebrate the day with his wife, nabbed a cupcake on a red napkin and took it home. When Ma got home from work that day, the old one presented this cupcake to her like a jewel. Ma was filled with surprise. Thinking this Valentine’s Day would follow the pattern of years past, Ma expected nothing, but then was given a cupcake my father got for free.

To preserve this rare moment and the gesture the old one made, Ma did not eat the cupcake. Instead, she placed her gift upon a shelf. The red frosted Valentines day cupcake, to this day, sits on a shelf in the kitchen. This cupcake dessicated in the window, to the point that it is now hard as a rock. This cupcake has outlasted cars, appliances, and the great kitchen flood. Covered in dust atop a red napkin, this cupcake has sat in the kitchen for almost 20 years.

A similar surprise fell upon my Ma this year as they celebrated yet another wedding anniversary. This time, my father’s token of affection took the form of a small rose bush. A thoughtful gesture marred by his great ability to annoy.

My father, for days and weeks after, would ask Ma about the state of the rose bush. Are you going to plant it? Where are you going to plant it? It should be planted in direct sunlight. Where do you think it will get the best sunlight?

Ma repotted the rose bush, but refused to plant it. Eventually, the plant was moved, by my father, to the south side of the property so it can get “direct sunlight.” The problem with this is that under direct sunlight, the plant nearly caught fire, it shrivelled and dried, and was nearly killed. Ma moved it to the front of the property in the shade, and it survived and bloomed exquisite little roses.

Ma’s victory with the move of the bush was to be widely known. After months of constant questions over the rose bush and the nearly daily reminder that it needed direct sunlight, Ma felt vindicated in its thriving in the shade. This vindication did not only come from my father being wrong, but my Ma’s coworker, who, as well, consistently asked about the plant and stated that it should be in direct sunlight.

As the seasons changed and the temperature lowered, the small rose bush was taken into the garage. In a surprising turn, roses bloomed once again in the frosty dark dwelling. As winter persisted, the plant was eventually taken into the house to stay warm. Sitting on a box in front of the window with little twinkling lights, the rose bush was made our Christmas Tree.

My father’s incessant inquiries into the plant haven’t diminished. The rose bush still sits on the box next to the window, staying warm under grow lights. However, over the past several weeks, the plant has withered slightly. This has become the bane of Ma, as she stated, that of course, after months of keeping it alive, and enduring the hell of my father’s picking, the plant will pick now to die.

Ma continues to care for the rose bush, beating back death with each watering. My father continues to peer at it and ask about it, saying he’s just checking. I don’t know if the rose bush will survive, but I fear that if it doesn’t, the plant will be placed atop a shelf next to a 20-year-old cupcake. The two being constant reminders of my parents’ enduring marriage and the annoying, ridiculous gestures my father has made throughout the decades.