‘The Plastic Flower’

My companion and I turned left at the intersection. The day had been hard, and with every step the blisters on my feet demanded rest. Elder Erickson, an experienced missionary of twenty months, smiled nostalgically as I winced, remembering how he’d passed through the same. How I longed for the day when leathery skin would at last silence my cries of pain!

Walking this new neighborhood, though, a different cry caught my attention–the cheerful cries of children dancing in the street. Huts lined the road–a village made from brown and gray legos–and stopgap, graffiti-scared walls stood in front of each shanty. These small dwellings–tool sheds, not homes–resembled the tiny adobe houses of Mexico, but without the beautiful adobe color that makes the Mexican buildings poster or calendar worthy. Some ancient civilization had once paved the roads, but time had exposed cobblestones and excavated potholes. I’d seen the same scene in National Geographic, only instead of a photograph this distant land was my new life, my new everything. Home was the distant place now.

We stopped at one of those huts, the gate locked to keep thieves from stealing the family’s nothing.

“Quem é?”

“Élder.”

The timid voice unlocked and opened the gate. Before us stood a brown Mrs. Santa Clause in a tattered T-shirt. Time had wrinkled her face. The biggest wrinkle was her smile, a painting framed by wiry, black hair.

She directed us to a ragged couch. Scare money had robbed the cold cement floor of tile or carpet, and time had stripped it, laying bare the gravel beneath. Her husband had built a small kitchen and a broken-toilet bathroom, both hidden behind thin sheets that should have been doors. No ceiling defended this house, only a tin roof with holes that became waterfalls during the rainy season.

But wait! Something was different. The floors were still gray cement, the roof was still leaky, and the toilet was still broken. I glanced around–almost frantically–before realizing. She’d spent the entire day painting the old cement walls white. Scarce money had refused plaster, and wallpaper was as remote as caviar, but how she beamed as we admired her handy-work!

Her friend had spent a few months in my home state. We gazed at the television, at images of a U.S. Christmas with snow and lights, tinsel and mistletoe. Again I saw children playing, this time with shiny plastic toys on wrapping-paper carpet. The immaculate tile floor of an appliance-ridden kitchen reflected a nearby Steinway, a sharp contrast to the windowless walls and feelings of inadequacy reflected in the woman’s eyes. The Christmas kids laughed just like the dancing ones, though for different reasons. Brazilian street children saw Christmas trees and tinsel as often as snow.

We rode in a red car with black leather seats. A radio blared either static or Pearl Jam; I’m uncertain which. Undisturbed whiteness covered the ground. The middle-class houses were mansions. The road, as smooth as the freshly fallen snow, led to car-and-truck-filled driveways. Stunning wreaths hung on American doors painted green and red and white, and…

She stood, her eyes still fixed on the television, and left the room. Moments later she returned with a vase of cheap, plastic flowers and a pensive countenance. Peace replaced sadness. The two Americans vanished. The cars, the boats, and the tinsel faded away. She placed the flowers on the shelf near the TV and arranged them a bit. A hidden smile graced her face as she stepped back, a smile of satisfaction. It was a beautiful house, with a cold cement floor, a leaky roof, and walls as white as snow.

Leave a Comment


characters remaining



 
(Your email will never be published)