Summer Weeds

The porch swing rocked in the warm summer breeze. Amelia stepped out onto the porch from the living room doorway. The screen door sighed as it closed. She loved the smell of summer. It had a sweetness to it that matched the leafy tones of her hot tea. She sipped it outside against her better judgement, but she couldn't stomach returning to the crowded living room. Black figures weaved amongst each other, mingling together as they shared their condolences. Laughter could be heard coming from the kitchen as spirits were passed to the mourners.

The house was only four rooms. Bathrooms were built on in the late seventies when indoor plumbing finally became vogue in the rural mountains of southwest Virginia. They scrunched awkwardly into the corners of the house where closets would have been. Amelia recalled her uncle telling her about first experiencing a hot shower after being drafted to the army. He spent some time at an army base in the states before shipping out to Vietnam. His war-torn laugh busted from the living room as another mourner joined the party. Funerals always seem to bring new cousins from the woodwork.

Amelia sat quietly outside as the heat drew beads of sweat from the edge of her bangs. Her black dress didn’t make the scorching summer day any less miserable. She wondered if it was cooler below ground. Would the loved-one she was laying to rest truly rest below, away from the blistering heat? She made her way down the front steps, pouring the hot tea in the red mulch. Dandelions were making their way into her grandmother’s garden. She hated dandelions.

“Amie!” her grandmother would cry, “Git you some gloves on and help me out here pickin’ these weeds!”

Usually, Amelia would huff and puff about the task. She was much more comfortable inside playing the Nintendo 64 her cousin outgrew. She would sit in the dark second bedroom and stare as Mario jumped into the water and swam. She wondered how he held his breath so long in that digital moat.

Standing in front of the bustling house without her grandmother’s voice to scold her into compliance, she gladly knelt. A couple tears rolled down her cheeks as she picked the few dandelions that threatened to take over her grandmother’s flower bed. Most everything in it had been baked to a crisp by the heat wave, but she didn’t care. Without any gloves, she pulled and dug and twisted and cried until the mulch was ruined and her tear stains were dyed red.

“Amelia!” her mother called.

“Yeah?”

“It’s time to go.”

She wiped her face and nose with the back of her forearm and snorted back her tears. Her skirt was covered with little red pieces of pulverized tree. They poked out like the spines of an angry cactus. She plucked them out and grabbed her teacup to head back inside. Just then, she remembered the flowerbed. Despite most of the flowers being burned to a crisp, she managed to find just one that held all the brilliance of having just bloomed. She plucked it and hopped up the steps to rejoin the throng of people. Many that were just laughing began sobbing as they left the little house. For many, it would be the last time.

The drive was pleasant. The sun beamed overhead as the parade of mourners met at the funeral home. The blue lights guided the party to a beautiful valley with what looked like thousands of stones. Some placards boasted solid granite and jutted into the sky, daring death to try and take them. Others humbly lay against the grass waiting for heaven to pluck them up. The navy sedan wound its way through the cemetery before parking alongside the path. Amelia stepped out; her heels sunk into the supple lawn.

A lonely green tent welcomed the crowd. Chairs, but not enough, gathered underneath for the immediate family. Amelia clung to her grandmother’s flower. The funeral directors guided everyone into their respective seats. Amelia sat down and felt all the liquid from her body rise into her eyes. She patiently endured the final words said about her grandmother. She was a mother. She was a grandmother. She was a great-grandmother. She was a friend. She loved the Lord.

“Let us pray,” the preacher said, “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for Sister Pearl. We thank you for the 88 years you blessed her with and the fourteen children and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren she left behind. We ask you, Lord, to be with the family during their time of grief. Lift up their souls and their hearts, dear Lord. Give them comfort in the knowledge that they will see her again someday. Praise the Lord! Amen.”

Amelia stayed glued to her chair as the living children and their families took their turns walking up to the casket. It was closed at this point, but they all seemed to want to take one last look. Maybe they just wanted to remind themselves that the casket was a beautiful pale pink that she would have loved. Or maybe they wanted to admire the flowers on top that were arranged by a family friend. Or maybe it was to convince themselves that she really wasn’t coming home.

Once everyone was finished offering their final goodbyes, Amelia pealed herself from her seat and made her way to the casket. She looked at the flowers. There were lilies, hydrangeas, ferns, baby’s breath, roses, and some she couldn’t even name. They were all fresh and bright as if they had been made for God himself. She looked down at the single flower in her hand, crumpled and limp from being held so long and whispered,

“I saved you a marigold, mamaw.”

She laid the bright yellow flower on top of the pale pink casket and walked away.