Withering Without Sunshine

I sighed as I looked shamefully over at the lonesome sunset painted clay pot in the corner. Her last marigold still sat in the same spot near the window, no one had claimed it yet. The thing looked terrible, though it was no one's fault; the sun had not shined in three damn days. I had no knowledge on plants or gardening, but neither did any of the other siblings. It would break my heart to let the last piece of her collection go to waste, but it would be equally painful if I was remembered as "the one who killed mom's last flower." I sighed again; the stench of the jeans I had been wearing since her funeral told me everything I needed to know about my capabilities of taking care of something my mom had a lot of pride in. My heel slowly turned as I walked away from the window and towards the bathroom. Just because the house was vacant does not mean that the utilities stopped working. I unbuttoned my denim jeans and turned on the washer, humming the songs she would sing to me as a child while looking for that damn laundry detergent. That's right, we kept it under the sink, not in the closet. I turned around and looked in the mirror, only to be bothered by the stain from the wine I chugged the previous night to be on my favorite sweater she got me.

"God...bless it," I whispered to myself "if you can't take care of yourself, how can you take care of mom's flower." I did not bother checking the tags to see if the sweater requires hot or cold water, I just threw it in with the jeans that are already cycling. Something catches my eye as I throw the sweater in, a piece of pink cloth. My heart blocked my mind from realizing what it was until I picked it up and held it close; it was her old bathrobe, it even still smelled like her. I was home alone, everyone else had left the house earlier because they could not stop seeing the ghost of her that haunted this place. Thankfully for me, I had gained a new niche trick that none of my other siblings seemed to catch onto: I could talk to ghosts. Talking to ghosts actually is quite simple, you just need to do the strange rituals they never teach you in Sunday school. So I decided to set up my séance so I could ask my mom how she was doing.

I put on her robe, and took a deep breath in. I walked into the living room, singing her tunes, and I picked up her last flower from her garden. I could hear her speaking to me already, through the lyrics that came from my own lungs. I could feel her warm embrace, as the satin robe rubbed my shoulders. I could feel her touch as I gently brushed the flower with one hand, and watered it with the other. I collected myself after the song was done, and sat and waited for the washer to be finished. I picked myself up and moved back into the bathroom, the clothes were now washed, but had to dry. I throw both the sweater and the jeans into the dryer before stopping myself, reaching into the dryer, and instead hang the sweater up to dry. It will take until morning for the sweater to dry, but I don’t mind wearing this robe for just an evening longer; plus there is no point in ruining a perfectly good sweater by shrinking it, now that the stains are gone. Just as I am about to leave the bathroom I notice something, the way my clothes smelled the same as the robe I had borrowed. I reached under the sink, and grabbed the remainder of the laundry detergent, I had just found my new favorite brand. Suddenly, something inexplicable happened; the radio turned on from the other room, and it was playing Allison Moorer’s best hit, Picture.

“Damn...” I muttered to myself as I wandered back into the living room. I put the detergent near the door and went to check in on the flower, which was already looking healthier than it did during the washing cycle. “My mom’s a great gardener. Even from six feet under, she’s still taking care of her plants.”