Little Weeds

"Melissa, c'mon!" "'S time ta see Mama."

Melissa dawdled out by Momma’s beat up Jeep Grand Cherokee. She held the passenger-side mirror and swung back and forth around it with her right hand and twisted her torso right to left, not caring much for what Momma was attempting to have her do. She wanted to close her eyes and imagine she was back in the house, away from the muggy Mississippi heat and sipping at a cold apple juice box. As a 6-year-old, she didn't have the words to express how she felt, but she grew to loathe the cemetery that Granny had been buried in. She and Momma never saw any other people there. It was lonely, likely abandoned. There were weeds popping up around every headstone, growing in like green halos around the darkly-stained slabs. The sun slanted in reluctantly through the leaves clinging to the tall trees. As the leaves swayed with the wind, the little patches of light morphed and swelled on the ground. She'd long stopped trying to chase the outlines with her eyes.

In her left hand, Melissa clutched the sallow, wilting flowers that Momma insisted they bring every time they visited Granny’s grave. If she held the stems too hard, they crunched feebly between her fingers. She pictured the beautiful, proud flowers that had laid atop Granny's casket in the one photo she saw and wondered where Momma found the ones Melissa held in her hand at that moment. They couldn't have been the same.

Swinging back and forth one last time, Melissa stopped and stood stock still for a second. The concrete beneath her feet was warm. As she lifted one foot to slide it beneath the strap of her now-off-white discount flip flops, she felt the cool air ghost over her skin. Her pink little feet were dwarfed by the too-big sandals and forced her to look down at the ground as she took her first few steps. Her hand abandoned the mirror and fell to her side. The lack of a strong breeze and the sunny heat bearing down on her made the blue-green cotton fabric of her dress stick to her shoulders and sides.

"Momma, ’s hot!” she called out over the clearing. She could see Momma, tall, thin, and oh, so pale beneath the blazing sun, standing in the middle of the clearing. The grass about her ankles swayed the slightest bit with the wind, but she stood, unmoving, in her long-sleeve shirt and shorts with her hands grasped in front of her chest. When Momma didn’t respond, Melissa glanced back at the Jeep one last time before stepping onto the grass.

The plants crunched beneath her feet as she weaved her way between the crooked headstones. The sunlight dabbling the ground turned into thicker, slanting rays that warmed her face and shoulders when she stepped into them. She looked down to the flowers in her hand, still trudging along past the tall stones. Momma always handed the flowers off to her whenever she got them. When they got to the cemetery, Momma would always pray. Always in front of Granny, always in the quiet of the early afternoon, and always, always on a Sunday.

As she turned her attention to the tiny, overturned vases near the headstones, Melissa noticed that some of the flowers came in various assortments of colors; red, white, pink, and some were even purple or blue. The ones that still had color, that is. Most of them were shriveled and brown as they crunched underfootjust as the grass did. The headstones themselves were overgrown by moss. Names and dates were obscured by the damp little plants, so she only saw parts of names. They didn’t make sense if she sounded the letters out in her head, but they didn’t matter to her. The only important grave, from what she understood, was Granny’s.

She slowed her pace as she neared Momma. The sunrays danced against her dark hair and too-pink skin. The little beads of sweat on her forehead and neck glistened in the light. Her knuckles were bone-white with how hard she clenched her hands together.

She wasn’t done praying. In the dead of night, when Melissa couldn’t watch TV anymore and had to go to bed, she heard Momma in the living room. Crying and sobbing and hiccupping between bursts of shouting at nothing and everything on the pull-out couch she slept on.

How c’n there be a God’f he took you from me?

“You” was always Granny. Though Melissa didn’t remember her, Momma constantly told her stories. The one she remembered the easiest was Momma recounting watching the gilded, white-lacquered wood of her mother’s casket being lowered into the ground. She told that story a lot. Every time she told it, though, Melissa’s uncles and Grandpa weren’t there.

Sometimes, Melissa felt she could stare at the spot where Granny was buried and see her. See her in the pictures that Momma had shown her, see the white, lace dress and the big up-do they’d put her brunette hair into. Or look down and see the glittering white of the casket and gold of its handles as though it were bathed in the sun. She thought that it was weird to be able to see those things, so she tried to ignore them.

Momma’s hands relaxed, still clasped in front of her. When she opened her eyes, tears were gathering at the corners and threatening to leak from them. Eyebrows furrowed, she turned to her daughter and gave her the smallest semblance of a smile. Her face was crimson from holding back her tears. She held out one hand and the other fell to her side.

“You c’n give ‘em to me now.”

Melissa watched as Momma brought her black sleeve to her face and wiped at the wetness in her eyes. With a sniffle, she accepted the crumpled, suffering little marigolds from her child’s hand. The stems were warm with Melissa’s body heat, making Momma’s smile widen.

“Thank you.”

She knelt at the headstone, one knee touching the ground. The prickly little blades were surely going to leave impressions on her skin, but she didn’t care about that. Cupping the side of the tiny, brass vase atop the engraved granite at her feet, Momma slid the stems of the little flowers into it. She rearranged them until they were all standing a little bit taller against the sides of the vase.

Usually, Melissa was quiet during this time. Momma was so silent that she didn’t think it was appropriate to speak. But, as she glanced up, Granny was there again in her white dress. She wore a warm smile as she looked down on the two of them.

“Gon’ head, sweetheart. Tell ‘er.”

Melissa stared at the apparition in slight confusion. When Momma stood, her hands went back to her sides. Her fingers curled once, relaxed, before repeating the process two more times. Melissa waited until Momma’s hand was completely still before reaching out with her own tiny hand and taking Momma’s fingers in her grasp.

“They’re real pretty.”

Her voice came out too soft, more like a whisper on the wind than anything. Momma turned her head to her, eyes widened in shock. When she glanced back to the flowers, her gaze softened. Gently squeezing her child’s fingers, she agreed.

“Yeah… they are, ain’t they?”