The Pansy's Purpose by Mary Grace van der Kroef

The little flower was waiting. It sat quietly with its siblings in a plastic tray. The sun was warm, the waiting long. But what else was there to do?

A woman with tired, anxious eyes came looking for the right blooms. First impressions were important, things needed to be just right.

That day she picked the little yellow pansy.

There were three children in her garden and a gentleman. Together they planted the pansy along with all the other flowers. Tall ones and short ones. Purple ones, blue ones, red ones, and yellow ones. They all looked just right.

“Will they be enough?” the woman asked, her eyes roving over the planters and pots.

“More than enough,” said the man as he put his arm around her shoulders.

The weeks passed. Many people came to visit the little garden at the back of the house as Little Pansy grew.

It shook with joy in the sun and the rain. On hot days it smiled up at the children as they passed by with the watering can, cold drops falling on, and sliding down, petals, stems, and leaves. The pansy didn’t even mind when the children, growing tired, argued. Overall, it was a pleasant home with a loving family.

One day after yet another set of visitors had viewed the backyard, the children stayed outside to play. Little Pansy’s plant had grown so much, it now sported several brightly colored heads. Petals shimmered in the light as they hung over the side of the wooden planter.

Little Pansy watched the woman mind her children. She sat alone as they played, the air filled with laughter and splashing from the small pool. But the little pansy saw that underneath the spray of water, there were tears in the woman’s eyes.

Little Pansy wished it could call out. The sun was so bright! How could someone be so sad? Life was good. But a little flower can’t talk. So, it just watched.

The woman wiped her eyes and went about her business. There were children to watch, a meal to cook, a house to keep tidy.

“Will this waiting ever end?” she thought aloud as she walked past the flowers. “We have worked so hard. Wasn’t it enough?”

Summer turned, and the cooler days of fall moved in. Little Pansy started feeling a chill behind the sun’s rays. Time was running short. Frost would soon settle over the garden.

It happened on a clear night, with the stars shining brightly despite the chill. The flowers heaved a sigh as they felt the first of winter’s bite. Frost was here. It crept across leaves and touched multicolored petals, turning edges brown, then black. Little Pansy pulled its leaves in close at that first painful nip. But knew it was time.

When the sun came up, it kissed the heads of the surviving blooms. But many of the smallest flowers didn’t make it. A harsh night for a first frost. Little Pansy had lost mass.

“Mamma!” The eldest child was the first to spot the damage. “What happened to the flowers, Mamma?”

As the woman hastily slipped into a jacket, she sighed. “There was a frost last night, baby. When it comes, most of the plants die.”

Little fingers caressed drooping leaves. “Why Mama?”

“Because winter is too cold for them. Everything dies baby, in its time.”

“Can we plant new flowers when winter goes away?”

“If we still live here. We will plant even more than this year.”

Little Pansy could see the questions spinning in the child’s eyes. But soon they were all drawn into a game and forgot the dying garden. But the woman sat by the flowers.

She plucked dead heads from stems and ran her fingers over blooms that had somehow survived. A goodbye? A thank you? There were tears in her eyes.

The nights of frost grew in frequency. They were not all as harsh as that first night had been, but no garden flower can withstand night after night of cold crystallizing on blooms, leaves, and stems. It wasn’t long before cold had bitten them all. Our little pansy lost all its blooms. Somehow, underneath the drying brown twigs, stems, and leaves, was life.

The sounds of the world receded as little pansy drew in on itself. It watched its neighbors give in to the way of nature when snow fell. The first day the snow melted as it hit the stiffening grass. The second night, it lasted a few hours on the ground in the shade.

Little Pansy couldn’t understand how it could still be alive. But it knew it was. A thickness covered it. A tangle of debris kept the sharpest frost just back far enough. Our little pansy could still hear the sounds of the children playing ball beyond the planter’s wooden ledge.

“Hey, that’s MINE!”

“I had it first!”

The argument escalated quickly. One child was soon crying and shrieking for Mom. The sobs were deep and the breaths in between words caught.

The other child was shouting angry words in the background as Mom stepped in. Little Pansy heard shuffling, more crying, and things being thrown.

“Everyone back inside NOW.” Mom was not happy. Her voice shook as she passed the all but empty planters. “God, I can’t take this much longer. Something has to change. Please.”

It was a prayer. The words steeped in desperation.

The next night, heavy snow cut out the sound from the backyard. Winter was here to stay.

It was dark underneath the snow. Little Pansy soon grew lonely. Flowers thrive in a full garden, or a field, wild and free, not alone. Pansies are not perennials. Their time is most often short. Confusion mixed with the lonely, endless night.

Why am I still here, God?

I was to end…

I was to die.

Why didn’t I?

My life was so full. I was ready. It was my time.

Why am I still alive?

Little Pansy fought constantly with grief. It had watched all its companions pass. It had lost the humans who had brought it home. Now It lost itself. The thing it was, it didn’t understand. Was it a single root left alive? It didn’t know. Was it a seed? No way to understand. All it knew was....alone....cold. All it waited for was when.

When will I know?

When will you show me?

When will you speak to me?

When will I understand?

What is my purpose?

It had already served its purpose. Grief turned to exhaustion.

I need light.

I’m so cold!

Why me?

When will this end?

Does God see the tears of a pansy? Little Pansy filled with doubt.

God, why do you torture me?

Please, just let me die.

But winter never lasts forever. One day the bitter cold lessened. Little Pansy felt warmth. It was painful as what little live parts it had left thawed. It shivered with tears.

Why did I live?

Was it just to feel pain?

But God never answered the little pansy. There was no still soft voice. Only the tinkling sounds of melting snow, shifting crystals, and children’s voices.

Children’s voices!

“Mama, watch me.”

“Wait your turn, if we both stand on the hill it will collapse.”

“Be careful you two! If I have to wade in there to rescue you, your dad will have to rescue me.”

The voice held familiar exhaustion, but it was still sweet. Amid the tears of pain, there were also tears of joy welling up within our little pansy. Oh, to see the children again.

The piles of snow still surrounded the planter in high shadowing mounds. But as the days lengthened, the hills shrank. Sometimes there was the sound of shoveled slush falling into the water, often accompanied by giggles and splashes. Some days it wasn’t the voices of the little family our pansy heard, but visitors.

“Will the roof need replacing in the next few years?”

“I wish I could see the yard without all the ice and snow.”

The thaw was agonizingly slow for Little Pansy. But oh, the joy when the drifts had finally shrunk enough, and a long ray of sun struck the mess of debris inside the planter. The air was still cold, but everything glowed a warm amber. Somehow there was hope. It crept into every molecule left alive in the little plant, and in that warm glow, that life grew.

One day the voices of the children were especially shrill. Recently it was Father minding them most often. But today Mother was also present.

“I want to ride my bike! WHY, can’t we ride in the parking lot? It’s not fair.”

“I know it’s not fair, but it’s the rules right now. We aren’t supposed to go out unless it’s for essentials.”

“What are essentials, Mama?”

“Things you need to live.”

Mother’s voice was haggard. It didn’t sound like she was really there, but how could she be talking if she wasn’t? Something was very wrong.

“Dad, can’t we just go for a little while?”

“No, we have to stay in the backyard today.”

“But it’s so boring. I want to go inside.”

“It’s only been five minutes,” said Mother in muted tones.

“But there is NOTHING to do!”

“Then just sit and be bored.”

The whining continued, Mother and Father refusing to relent. There was a sound of scraping and a soft thud. A chair was pulled close to the planters. Fingers made a scraping sound on half-melted, hardened snow.

As the woman removed slush and debris from the wooden box in front of her, Little Pansy could hear tears. For a few moments, the small plant forgot how cold it was, forgot the pain of growing roots and shoots. With all its might, it stretched towards the growing light.

If she only sees me, maybe she will smile.

But the woman didn’t see Little Pansy. There was too much-crusted snow, too many dead plants. Sloshing sounds of scooped and tossed slush half masked a deep sigh.

“God, I am dead inside. I have nothing left to give.”

Little Pansy barely heard the whispers. But they hung in the cold air right over the little plant’s head.

“I hate this world. There is no peace left inside of me or our home. Take me home now. My family would be happier without me. They would be free.”

These words poured out brokenness.

“God, why do I keep living? I just want to end.”

Sister, I hear you; I see you. Look for me.

But they called away the woman. A child needed a coat, adjusted, and one had lost their boot in the snow hill’s remnant.

That night, when the world was quiet but for the wind in bare branches, and a few distant car wheels on pavement, little Pansy could not shake the woman’s words from its small heart.

I don’t know why I live. It was not my plan. It should not have been. But here I am.

Creator in heaven, grow me.

That night there was no frost, and the night was warmer than it had been since autumn. Most of the dirty piles of slush melted, the planter filled with water that then sank into the soil. Little Pansy was fully awake, fully alive, and ready. There was no more pain from half-dead twigs, they fell away.

Every day our little Pansy gained mass. Bright green hid under old growth within the planter, and it pushed upward. It wasn’t long before small new leaves unfolded to catch the warm sun.

The children played in the garden daily. There was no going out, and no more visitors. Rain boots replaced snow clothes. They discarded sweaters when the sun was high.

One day they all came to the planters and began pulling dead things out. Mother was there. Her face was tired and pale.

“What flowers are we going to buy, Mama?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

“Can I pick them out? I want pink ones, and blue ones too.”

“No, I’m sorry. We have to stay home while Dad goes to the greenhouse. They are only allowing one person in at a time.”

“Okay.” The child’s voice filled with resignation. Disappointment had become a regular thing for them all. “But Dad, you will pick pink flowers for me, right?”

“I will look for them, sweetheart. I promise.”

The children continued to chatter, but Mother remained silent, allowing Father to answer all of their questions. Her fingers searched through the cool soil for things that didn’t belong. A large stone that a child had buried months ago. A bit of plastic that had gotten away from a late summer BBQ. Little Pansy’s dead bits and pieces. She cleared each away, bit by tinny bit. She bent over the planter. Today was not a good day.

“God, this life is not worth it.”

Her words dripped cold onto Little Pansy. The plant felt it in its roots. But she was looking. Little Pansy reached up. Did it move? Did its leaves grow just to catch the light?

See me!

This time, she did.

“What’s this?”

Her words called over Father.

“Oh, that’s not a weed.”

“Do you remember what we planted here last year?”

“No, I don’t.”

“None of them were perennials, were they Dear? How did it survive?”

“I have no idea.”

Amazed voices were all around now. Happy children pointed at little Pansy, peeking at them from under the brown leaves and stems of last year.

Sister! Smile.

Mother only had eyes for Little Pansy. Gently, she searched its growth to remove the old.

“How are you alive, little miracle?”

At that moment, as Mother held a small baby leaf softly in between finger and thumb, Little Pansy knew all its whys. Mother smiled as she cried. Her children and Father didn’t seem to notice. But that was okay. With a deep sigh, she whipped tears away. She was still tired, and her face was still pale. But there was a light behind her eyes that Little Pansy had never seen before.

“I will name you ‘My Miracle.” And with eyes closed, she whispered, “Thank you, God.”

The days after that went by fast. They planted new flowers in each planter and added new pots beside the old ones. There were pink flowers and blue ones, purple ones and red ones, but none grew as full as Little Pansy. One bloom opened after another. The sun was warm, the watering can full, and life was again good. Visitors came. They looked over everything, while Little Pansy and its new comrades sang them silent songs of spring, then summer.

One week the yard was busy with a hustle and a bustle. Things were being loaded into a large truck. Beds and dressers, too many boxes to count. When all the work was done, Mother came to say goodbye.

She snapped a picture with her phone. Her face had more color but was still tired. She limped with sore feet from much work. But there was still a spark behind her eyes.

“Thank you, My Miracle.”

The others left in an unfamiliar car, as Father started the moving truck’s engine. He was waiting for Mother. She stood up.

Smile sister.

She did.

She walked to the truck and pulled herself into the cab. The sound of the truck door closing was sharp. The engine hummed a strange song to Little Pansy as Mother and Father drove away. But Little Pansy wasn’t sad. It was summer, and there were still a few more months of life to live.

God, thank you.

Mary Grace van der Kroef is a writer, poet, and artist from Ontario, Canada. She believes the gift of poetry is a powerful form of prayer and worship. She endeavors to use her words to encourage others. Her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies, such as “The Best of Kindness 2020 Anthology” by Origami Poems Project. Please follow her work at www.marygracewriting.ca