On a lucky, summer day, Aunt LaLa hands me the big, black, metal scissors that rest in a kitchen drawer.

“Go outside and cut some zinnias, Jeanne,” she says, and hands me a shallow, wide-handled, ash basket to hold the flowers that I will make into loose bouquets to bring home. She’s great at keeping me and my three sisters busy with little chores around Nanny’s house.

“No, Ida, no, she can’t use those! Are you nuts? She’ll get cut. Give me strength!” screeches Mom, frowning darkly at us as I take the scissors. Mom refers to Aunt LaLa’s Christian name, Ida, when she gets mad at her. A divorced woman raising four daughters on her own, Mom is highly overprotective, usually in unimportant instances, such as when it came to me, at twelve-years-old, using scissors.

My shoulders hunch down as I draw my arms tight, cross them against my chest, the scissors tensely held in my hand. Mom’s harsh, cold words ring out and ricochet from wall-to-wall in the warm, turquoise-colored kitchen, then ricochet right through my head, down to my feet. Her voice is unbendable, hard, and reproachful. I feel as though I’ve done something wrong and take the blame, hard on myself for getting Mom worked up.

“Dummy! I should’ve known she’d get mad! How I wanta cut the zinnias!” I push my elbows into my sides to stop the shaking in my stomach, the tremors of fear in my head. Even my below-the-shoulder, brown hair is quivering in its brown, plastic barrettes clipped at each side of my head, and tears are starting to sprout at my long-eyelashed, brown eyes.

I don’t know what it is, but one thing like hell I do know is that I don’t want to get Mom angrier. She thought I could hurt myself and didn’t want me to end up an unfortunate victim by way of the scissors. She didn’t know how to say this in a kind way, just her way.

“Oh, Marie, you’re so fussy! She’ll be fine. I’ve shown her how to use them before, and besides that, she’s watched me use them plenty of times. She’s not a baby,” says Aunt LaLa. Mom’s mouth shuts as she falls silent. Aunt LaLa will not take Mom’s shit, and Mom will not argue further with her.

“Go on, Jeanne. Don’t worry about it. I know you’ll be fine,” says Aunt LaLa, then shoos me out the door with a big smile. She knows that the more you cut, the more the zinnias bloom.

“Marie, you’re so stubborn! You’d better watch it. Jeanne is fearful of her own shadow. It’s tough to get two words out of her. She can’t go through life afraid of everything, including a pair of scissors.” Aunt LaLa’s words push at my back as I escape before any more of Mom’s words stop me.

“They don’t like each other when they get like that. Sisters!” I think, happy that Aunt LaLa controlled Mom just then, but miserable that I had to feel their coldness. I didn’t have to make a self-sacrificing move, give up the scissors, or anything else, in order to please Mom. I didn’t have to try to keep things flowing in a happy direction for her, but continued in the happiest direction, away from Mom, to the zinnia bed.

“Be careful with those big scissors, Jeanne! Watch the bumblebees! You don’t want to get stung! Make sure Barbara doesn’t get stung.” Mom calls out, having to get the last word of control. It’s a warning, with conditions, limiting my actions. My younger sister, Barb, jumps off the slate steps of the back porch and follows me to Grandpa’s zinnia bed, just a few feet away from the backdoor.

“Oh, Marie! Come and have a cup of coffee,” tsks, tsks Aunt LaLa, as she closes the screen door.