The end of “The Flowers” represents Myop’s recognition of the deep cultural trauma that she has inherited as a Black American. At the beginning of her journey, Myop—whose name might hint at the word “myopic” (nearsighted)—appreciates the flowers for their fragrant beauty as she gathers an armful of them. However, the sight of the skull and rotting corpse of a man who was lynched causes a profound shift in her feelings and her understanding of herself in relation to the world. As she makes sense of the racialized violence that killed this man, she sees for the first time the legacy of cultural trauma that she inherits as a Black American approaching adulthood and maturity. Myop’s feelings are not made explicit, but the transformative emotional power of her realization is implied when she lays down the flowers upon grasping the fact that the dead man was the victim of racist violence. This powerful gesture of mourning shows her growing emotional maturity and her recognition of the cultural trauma that has unfortunately been passed to her. As she grieves, she lays down the flowers and, in doing so, takes on a certain kind of burden—a cultural and emotional burden to honor and pay homage to her fellow Black Americans who suffered during slavery and who continue to suffer in its aftermath.
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Cultural Trauma and Mourning ThemeTracker
Cultural Trauma and Mourning Quotes in The Flowers
She had often been as far before, but the strangeness of the land made it not as pleasant as her usual haunts. It seemed gloomy in the little cove in which she found herself. The air was damp, the silence close and deep.
Myop began to circle back to the house, back to the peacefulness of the morning. It was then that she stepped smack into his eyes. Her heel became lodged in the broken ridge between brow and nose, and she reached down quickly, unafraid, to free herself. It was only when she saw his naked grin that she gave a little yelp of surprise.
Myop gazed around the spot with interest. Very near where she’d stepped into the head was a wild pink rose. As she picked it to add to her bundle she noticed a raised mound, a ring, around the rose’s root. It was the rotted remains of a noose, a bit of shredding plowline, now blending benignly into the soil. Around an overhanging limb of a great spreading oak clung another piece. Frayed, rotted, bleached, and frazzled—barely there—but spinning restlessly in the breeze. Myop laid down her flowers.
And the summer was over.
