No More Plastic Flowers

"Have a great christmas!" she said, in mid-transfer of the six dollars that was left out of my dad's twenty.

"You too," I say, and think about how I'm not going to pocket the change. I walk out the door and glance to my left, into the windows of the salon that make a mirror out of the contrast of light. She shouldn't have messed with my sideburns. I liked those...

Oh well. I climb in the truck and wait for my dad. A quick flip-down of the passenger side mirror and my suspicions are confirmed. I'm startled by the truck unlocking rythmically, which my dad likes to do with his keys from far away when I'm inside waiting. I flip the mirrow back up as he opens the door and throws a pile of plastic poinsettas into my lap. "Here, make yourself useful," he demands giddily, and hands me a pocketknife to cut off the tags. Then I hand him his change.

As I cut free the plastic foliage of their price tags I think about the only reason why dollor stores accross the country sell these things: cemetaries. We're going to see my grandparents.

"Now your mom told me you slept on the couch last night," Sweet, here we go... "and she told me not to fuss...

"But I will say one thing..."

...

We turn left into Blue Ridge Burial Gardens, or as I call it, The Labrynth. I see elderly folks in peacoats and scarfs make their ways to their respective loved ones, and it's funny, but my dad's already lost.

"I know their over HERE somewhere..."

They must be hiding. My Grandfather always hated flowers...

I look to my right and I see an older man in a heavy Carrhart coat and pants, hooded sweatshirt tucked underneath, with tools strapped to his waist. He looks at me with the eyes of ghosts.

After several reverses and turn-arounds my dad finally brings the big, blue Chevy to a characteristically slow halt. I exit, holding twelve poinsettas, nine red and three white, and practically jump the little stone steps into the exclusive Freemasonry section of the cemetery. My dad follows, taking a little more time with the stairs, catching up and pointing me to the "Chair in the East." "They're around THERE, somewhere..."

I trip over plots and raised gound. "Oops, sorry." I apologize. "Didn't mean to wake you..."

"Over here," my father exclaims as he starts to walk quicker, pulling out a pair of scissors and a little broom from his coatpockets. When I get to him he's down on all fours and trimming the grass that has lurked it's way between the stone and the sun. I survey all the other sites, most all of which have neatly trimmed borders. "The Adkin's have been here recently..." I say.

I look down to see my dad's arm working awkwardly around the mounted vase. I can almost here an echo of the Adkin's saying days before: "Those RHODES's sure haven't been here in a while. Why doesn't Mr. Rhodes come and trim the grass regularly?" My dad take's off his hat and wipes the sweat from his brow. I'm sure he could here it, too.

With one last snip he trades his scissors for the little broom and begins to swat away at the fallen grass that's now thatched itself over the marker. "Dammit," he says, as he's struggling to get every leftover blade out of every letter indention. "Well I guess you can never get it all!" he declares as he removes the blue-and-red bouquet and the American flag that he had garnished the sight with on Veteran's Day, and, while tossing the old flowers to the side, picks up the fresh new bundle of Red and White.

"Probably should have gotten sixteen," he confirms.
He's holding three of them, two red and one white, virtically next to the vase, to see how much of the stems he'll have to bend, and after a few failed attempts he finally gets them in, arranged beautifully, aesthetically, flag poking right out of the middle.

With the aid of a grunt he lifts himself up to bow his head and send them a greeting, via "Prayer-mail." He clears his watering eyes with an Amen.

"Alright, son, I'll be over here," he chokes, walking away, eyes to ground, flowers in hand, towards my step-mother's parent's site.

I stand above their shared plot.

"Hey guys!"

I lay myself down on the grass, chin resting on folded arms, between the two etched names, Beverly J., and Irene S. Sort of a tradition of mine.

"How's Heaven?" I say with playful eyes. "I bet it's awesome!"
I look at Beverly J. Then, Irene S.

"Hey, have you guys heard of this movie, it's called 'The Notebook?' I'm sure you have." They've got InDemand up there.

Back over to Beverly J, and then, Irene S.

"Well, anyway, It reminded me of you two alot. It's about a boy and a girl, who are madly in love with each other. I know you guys know the story. It's set during World War II. Didn't you two meet on the thing... th.. the place, with the... Ah well you know what I mean, you can read minds in Heaven, can't you?"

I smile, then bear my gaze upon my grandfather's name.

"I wish I would have talked with you more, when you could still respond. I got alot of things on my... well, you know."

I try to keep track of all my tears, but I lose one and and it falls onto the plot. It's then when an unnusually warm breeze blows through my newly trimmed hair, the way my grandmother used to run her fingers through to put me to sleep, telling me "Tomorrow's a new day" with each stroke.

The warmth, the warmth of lying in this cold, jagged grass! It's just as good as the old guestroom bed I would sleep in when staying with them over weekends, when I could still taste the eclaire cake in the roof of my mouth. My grandmother used to make the best eclair cake.

They would tuck me in, and we would pray.

I can still barely hear them, cracked and weathered voices, say it with me.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Amen"

...

"Welp," I sigh as I heave myself to my feat, bending back down to wipe a bit away of grass that had fallen off my coat and onto their marker, and, with one last smile, I look at them both, Beverly J., and Irene S., and say: "You two lovebirds take it easy!"

I pick up the old flowers and make it over to the old Reynold's marker, where the peace sign remains fervantly etched, where his vase remains fervantly empty. "Sup, Reynolds!" I say as I stick'em in and stand back up, and load my trigger finger with a wink and shoot the salutation right back at him.

I feel my dad's hand on my back. "Hm. A Peace Sign on a grave! That's Unusual! Come on, let's go."

We begin to fade away to the truck.

"You know," my dad starts, "I think I'll be cremated. Let them spred my ashes in the garden behind the church! No more plastic flowers for me!" He laughs. "Yeah, that's what I'll do."

Me too, Dad. Me too.

-Jeremiah Rhodes