As a student of literature, I’ve often heard it said that, “past is prologue.” It took the passing of my father at the end of 2024 for me to truly understand what the phrase meant.

Early in my adulthood, I decided that my parents deserved a bouquet of flowers in celebration of their respective holidays. No one batted an eye when I surveyed brightly colored roses to give to my mother on Mother’s Day. In fact, I had to be strategic about when and where I purchased them because it seemed that everyone had the exact same idea. The flower department and the card section of every local store was threadbare by the second Sunday in May because sons and daughters alike agree that an appropriate gift for the woman who gave you life is fresh cut flowers.

Leading up to the second Sunday in June, there never seemed to be a shortage of anything except ties and socks. I agree that our paternal figures can always use a good pair of socks and I enjoy seeing a man with a nice shirt and tie combo as much as the next person, but I never wanted my father’s gift to be the same as anyone else’s. So, I made it my personal mission to give my father what no one else ever had: flowers.

Some years it was roses, others it was tulips or carnations. Once, I remember specifically choosing an Alstroemeria (lily of the Incas) because the color was a deep, rich yellow that I felt represented Willy Wonka’s “golden ticket” kind of fame that my father had always made me feel like I had. In other words, any flower of any color was fair game — and I typically had plenty to choose from since others were grabbing undergarments and tools for their fathers.

The first year, I was self-conscious about how he would respond. Even knowing him not to be terribly expressive, I was worried that he would be disappointed or that he wouldn’t understand why. In fact, I had to talk myself out of picking up a bottle of cologne as a back up gift. So I showed up with a card and the flowers, following the florist’s instructions for trimming the ends and adding the flower food to room temperature water before arranging them in a vase.

I placed the vase and card on the mantle of my family home and found my father in his usual spot. He was posted in front of the den TV, catching up on the latest in baseball, basketball, and whatever other sport was in full swing. I wished him a Happy Father’s Day and told him I left his gift on the mantle. He nodded and said thank you and I watched nervously as he walked into the living room to see what I’d left for him.

My father has never been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, so I wasn’t surprised to watch him read the card silently to himself and thank me again. As he started to walk away, I gestured toward the vase and said, “Those are yours, too, Daddy.” He looked surprised, then picked up the vase and turned it around, examining the bouquet from all sides.

“What made you get me this?” he asked.

I explained that most people don’t think of buying flowers for men until their funeral, but I wanted him to have them while he could still enjoy them. He smiled, and I learned later that he told my mother and his friends in the neighborhood that it was his best Father’s Day ever.

Later down the road, when the time came to arrange my father’s homegoing service, I knew flowers would need to be purchased, but I also knew that the presence of flowers would only matter to those still with us.

Even still, in the midst of my tears and grief at losing my father, I was able to smile because I knew I had done him proud while he could still tell me so. Our past became the prologue for how my story continues to this day. I’m still buying flowers for my mother for Mother’s Day. I’m still making sure the family and friends around me know they are important and loved while they’re still with us. And I’m still smiling that, once upon a time, I was able to make sure that James Loftin Corbett knew he was the best dad ever.