“Father, why can’t I?”
This typical plea of adolescence was heard in the streets of the capital’s marketplace garden. “Father, it isn’t fair that all the other fathers buy their daughters roses when they come to the capital, but I have yet to receive one,” continued a young girl’s emotional reasoning. Her Father, a man of significant wealth, in turn, gently refused her request. “Now, dearest daughter,” he said, “you know very well that I love you. I work very hard to provide you your meals. I have had a house built so that you and I may dwell safely together in relative comfort. And never have I sought to make you miserable for the sake of misery. But I will not purchase, beautiful as it may be, a flower for you at the capital. Come, let us finish gathering our groceries here and then my business with the venders. Tonight I shall make you whatever meal you desire. And then tomorrow we shall set our eyes for home.”
The daughter made sign outwardly that she consented, but in her heart she was still bitter; though she dare not show her father. She loved her father, but sometimes she just could not understand his reasoning.
It was customary, in her country, when a girl had come to age that her father would buy her a rose upon her first trip to the capital. This was done, typically at age 14, to show that the father acknowledged his daughter’s coming to womanhood. The girl of this story was 17, had been to the capital multiple times throughout her life, and had yet to receive a rose. This had been the first time she had confronted her father openly on the subject. And many times before she had hinted at the prospect of his consenting to give her a rose but to no avail.
Inwardly, she began to doubt her father’s opinion of her. Why had she not yet received her rose? Was it because he did not yet think of her as mature? Was he ashamed of her? Albeit, he had always treated her kindly. He was never upset with her if she gave him no reason to be. And even if she did, he was always loving and fair. But was this all an act; a means of hiding some inner disappointment with her?
She had never known her mother, for she (the mother) had died in childbearing. As it was, she (the daughter) was the only child born to her father; and he had raised her alone. Was he let down that she was the only family he had? Did he wish she had been a son (which was admirable in that society) instead of a daughter? Was she merely a tolerance out of obligated charity?
Her father had always made an effort to make himself present while she was growing up; though his business often took him away. Now that she was older, he would often go away on lengthier business trips. Yet, she was still never left wanting. He had hired servants to help her manage the estate while he was gone. And if she was ever felt lonely, she had many pets to care for and play with.
Often her father’s business would take him to the capital. Whenever this was the case, the daughter would beg to go with him. In these instances, he would often deny her with a tender smile. But, as she grew, he would begin to allow her to accompany him more frequently; for it pleased him to have her company in his growing age. Once the daughter had received permission to join her father, she would inwardly hope that this would be the time she would receive her rose and the, much coveted, formal admiration of her father along with it.
She highly loved and respected her father. He was constantly working, but never failed to put her first. This made her love for him continually grow as she matured. Every time they would make the venture to the city, he would wake her in the early hours of the morning. She would find the cart was already packed; though the sun had not yet risen. Never did he ask her help; he simply prepared all that was needed. All she had to do was travel with him.
It was because of how much she respected him that she feared his disapproval of her. It was because of how she much she loved him that she longed for his formal approval.
“I’m going to go do business now with the vendors. Why don’t you go and purchase food for our dinner tonight,” said the father with a loving gaze as he handed his daughter a few gold coins. “Yes, father,” she said with downcast eyes, for she now felt guilty of her bitterness in light of his kindness.
He would always allow her to go do something more to her liking when it was time for him to do business. She was always grateful for this, for it gave her time to experience all the sights, smells, and sounds of the capital without the hindrance and weight of business.
Later that evening, they reconvened at the inn in which they were staying. As promised, the father prepared a hearty supper for his daughter. After the meal, they briefly made plans for the trip home; then parted for bed.
The daughter was awoken by sunlight in her eyes. Had she slept in? She had. Why had her father not awakened her? She then saw him sitting in a chair, reading as he would often do.
“Father, why did you not wake me? I thought it was your aim to get an early start,” she said.
“Ah, yes. Something has come up, and I have had to slightly change plans. There is some business I must immediately tend to, and we cannot go home today. I’m afraid you will have to come with me seeing as it is outside of the capital,” said the father (for it is a very foolish thing to leave a lady alone in any foreign city).
Around noon, they loaded themselves on the cart and travelled out of the city. When they were aways down the road from the city, the father said, “Reach under your seat and open what you find there.”
The daughter felt a smooth flexible object wrapped in packaging paper. She opened it, as her father instructed, to find a beautiful dress with many roses eloquently stitched around it. Her face beamed with joy, and she thanked her father many times. He simply smiled with his gentle face and said, “You are most welcome.”
She no longer doubted that he respected and loved her. Though he had not done the traditional act of giving a rose, she now knew that it was foolish of her to desire an act of formality when he had clearly cherished her for her entire life. She said, “Thank you” one more time. He simply chuckled, and with that she fell asleep on his steadfast shoulder.
* * *
When she awoke, she saw they were approaching the fork in the road that would lead home. To her left, she could see their estate down in the ever familiar valley where she had been raised. To her right, she saw the ever ambiguous mountain that loomed eternally. The sun was setting. Her father urged the cart to the right.
“Father, why are you going toward the mountain when home is in the valley,” she asked.
“I told you, there is some business I must tend to. And this is the road I must take,” he said with a slight laugh.
She became nervous. She had never been on the mountain and knew of no towns beyond it, for it was large and impregnable. Why had he not taken her home? Night was falling, and it would be dangerously cold on the mountain. Her nervous state turned to fear.
The road on the mountain (if road is even an appropriate word for that broken path) wound ever up; seeming endlessly towards the summit. They travelled on for nearly two hours under the clear light of the stars, though there was no moon to navigate by. A harsh wind was blowing with biting cold. The daughter regretted coming and questioned whether she would join her father on his next “business” journey.
She tried to sleep and would often doze off. But between the cold and the continual jerking of the cart on the rocky path, sleep was an impossible task. Her discomfort subdued her fear to callousness; and callousness to anger.
“How much further are we going to travel in this frigid darkness,” she asked with an attitude that more than conveyed her disdain.
“About another half hour,” said her father in a steady voice.
And so for another half hour they traversed onward up the mountain. When they had done so, the father guided the cart off of a slight bend in the path. In the dark, the daughter vaguely saw a pad of dirt with a small fire ring in the middle. After gathering some of the blankets for her from the cart, the father started a fire in the ring and bid the daughter to lie down and get some sleep. She did so with a scowl.
“Tomorrow I’ll be finished with my business, and then we’ll head home. The descent will be much easier,” said the father. And with those words she bitterly drifted to sleep by the fire.
* * *
“Get up,” came a voice seemingly minutes later. The daughter opened her eyes. The stars were still out and the sun had not yet risen. The fire had smoldered, and the cold had returned. Frost covered her blankets; anger kindled in her heart.
“Why did you drag me up this mountain? I am likely to get sick exposed to this cold, and your business is no business of mine,” she yelled shivering on the frozen ground.
“Get up,” was all he said in return. With a loath full sigh, she flung her things into the cart and took her seat. Her father said nothing. She could not make out his face in the still darkened sky.
After they had traveled an hour, dawn began to make its daily flirtation with the black night. Just as the dawning the sun’s light brought revelation; so now she perceived reality. She was just now seeing the true nature of her relationship with her father.
She looked down and saw the valley she called home. She longed to be there above all other places on earth. Even more so, she longed to be any place on earth but here.
She looked at her father and wished she had a normal life; that she had known her mother; that her father would work a normal job that would bring him home every night. She wished that he simply would love and acknowledge her the same way other fathers did for their daughters.
She looked down and saw her dress. Though it had initially brought her joy, she now resented it. It now symbolized an abnormal love. Her father may have been trying. But effort alone does not guarantee the fruition of a desired result. He could not love like others; therefore what he called “love” was not the real thing. One can be kind but still distant.
A thought popped in her head saying, “Your exaggerating; he loves you.” She denied it. Their relationship was cold and hard; like the mountain.
They approached a fork in the path. “From here, we walk,” said the man.
She no longer cared. She simply did as she was asked; as she had always done.
* * *
They came through a crevice in the mountain, and, Oh, what she beheld! The bright morning Sun burst forth upon a vast plain possessing a brilliant spectrum of color! Roses upon roses were as far as her eye could perceive. If that which is true beauty was capable of being recorded in mere words, here it would be written. But as that is not yet the case, but only ever so elegantly teased at by the author of the author, it will be attempted nonetheless (but only as the promise of words leading to the desired fulfillment of truth by which the words exist).
Her eyes welled with tears. Her heart broke with awe. For here was beauty that was beyond her; that her bitter, broken eyes should never have beheld.
“Here is where I gather the roses to be sold at the market. No one had ever seen a rose until I found this meadow. After I had retrieved one for your mother, everyone desired one. It has since been a symbol of beauty. I never gave you one because I wanted you to see this place with the purity of having never beheld even a hint of its beauty; just as I did the first time. But you were not old enough to make the trip till now. This is where I come. This is my business,” said the father.
Tears streamed down the daughter’s cheeks. Her father did not love her the way other fathers loved their daughters. His love was greater. By him, fathers were given a means to display their love for their daughters. But to her, the very source, of this love, had been saved and given.
She no longer wanted a rose. She knew from whom they all came.
Written on September 30, 2016, in light of my struggle with singleness.
H. J. Roderick 