there was a pink peony at my childhood home. it was planted by my great grandmother. one day, my stepfather accidentally dug it up and my mom never forgave him. 

it was a sticking point that would arise when she was angry at him for something else. she held onto that grudge for the entire duration of their marriage. the gentle flowers became knives in her hand. 

she didn’t get upset when the fence installers dug up the century-old rose of sharons or honeysuckles. she wasn’t bothered when a dog destroyed the roses. there was no mention of the 200 year old oak tree the neighbors cut down. she didn’t even seem to mind when i pulled out her high-maintence topiaries to plant native flowers. 

i assume that she was just looking for reasons to be upset at her husband. anything can become a weapon when your intentions are to harm. but when i paint peonies, i wonder what stories she had with that particular flower. i don’t know what their relationship was like and i don’t know what part of her was pulled out along with the roots. 

i do know that i inherited my appreciation of peonies from her. i always greet the pink ones, welcoming their presence back into our family lineage. filling the void. an act of patriarchal defiance, maybe. or it could just be a child wanting to fix their mother’s wound that was never their responsibility.