Today Is a Good Day

As my black patent-leather shoes crunched up the gravel path to the cemetery, I held tight to the fistful of daffodils I’d foraged along the way. While heading to that world of buried bones and stone slabs, a noisy bee declaring its intentions stopped me in my tracks when it chose one of those very daffodils to dart inside and suck on its nectar. Then, without a thank you or goodbye, it scurried off like a drunkard after the bottle runs dry.

It had been two years since my last visit, but that day I felt especially lonely and had a longing to get out from the piles of clutter that had been collecting in my place and talk to them, it being the first day of spring and all.

Usually, when I’m feeling blue or plain old lonely, I talk to the pictures kept in my accordion envelope with the string that wraps around a paper button. I pull that treasure of memories from under my bed and fall into the past that those old photos hold. That’s when I remember back to the time the Minnesota sun bronzed our shoulders while we fished on the shore of Reilly Lake. There we were, me, Mama, and Pops, clutching our bamboo poles with three unlucky fish dangling beside us.

In another picture, we’re in our backyard next to the barbecue Pops made from a half an oil drum. Even though it’s been twelve years since they died, our smiles are still stained with sauce from the slab of baby-back ribs cooked to perfection. Behind us on the picnic table sits a bowl of cherry tomatoes from the garden. I still remember how my mouth filled with juice as I bit down on them.

And the picture that always causes my eyes to sting is the one of them holding the trophy they won for a waltz contest at the Legionnaires’ annual dance. A big gold ball with two dancers on top. First place. Flush with pride, I made a special place for it between the drawback curtains of our front window. Every day, riding home from school on my bike, I waved at it.

Those were carefree years.

I don’t know where the people whose old rattletrap of a station wagon crossed into the wrong lane are buried, but my folks are ten rows from the entrance. She’s the fourth spot in, and he’s to her left. I stand between them, close to where their feet might be, and hope they know we are together again. I come so rarely now, it’s possible they’ve forgotten me.

That day the smell that comes after a long winter lingered. I laid the flowers on the grass between their resting places, stepped back to my spot by their feet, and began to babble on.

“I picked these out of the ground where the old bus shelter used to be. Do you remember it? They switched up the bus routes and took it down.”

I hushed for a bit, with the hope I’d hear the whisper of an answer. The tease of a breeze stirred through the leafless trees, but brought nothing with it.

“What about the first time you showed me a daffodil, Mama? I remember how you held my hand and walked me past the rough grass to that one sweet yellow flower that had poked out of the ground where nothing else grew, alone and proud. I was certain that was the happiest flower in the world—and still am.”

Like sometimes happens, my mind caught a memory of Mama in the front room, sitting in her favorite stuffed chair, reading Movie Star News from cover to cover, and Pops in his overalls and ball cap, cracking open peanuts to snack on while listening to a game on the radio. Sometimes it buzzed with static, especially when rain rolled in across the lake. He’d turn the knob back and forth until the announcer’s voice came through clear once more.

Right before I spoke again, a dragonfly hovered in front of me, suspended in the sunlight, shimmering with unspoken advice. Then it zipped away. Suddenly, I felt more connected with my surroundings, and all the bones lying in all the caskets buried in that sacred soil. Were they eavesdropping? I decided they must be, and raised my voice so all could hear. “Today is a good day.”

Dumbstruck, my knees went shaky, and I stumbled back two steps. My breath caught as I realized I’d spoken the very same words that Mama used to say each morning. The thought of her bright voice raised my spirits after all these years, and I kept talking.

“It was a gloomy day when that groundhog came out of his burrow this year, but he’s only been right about 40% of the time since you’ve been gone, so it could go either way.”

I laughed at how silly that sounded, but went on. “The ice has melted, and the Loons are back. You’ve probably heard them calling as they skim the lake in the mornings. Pops, I remember you always said they sounded like old friends laughing together, and hearing them makes the world feel less empty.

“Oh, and on the way up here, I came across a bee that has left the hive to get some serious work done.”

I stood for I don’t know how long, as still as the gravestones in front of me, surprised at what those five words did to me. Had I heard her voice? I wasn’t sure, and looked around to see if anyone was close-by who could see me feeling nearly happy. Then I trotted out of the hallowed grounds, hearing today is a good day in the pebbles under my feet—today is a good day.

Back home, I thought about the day, and Mama’s words, and how the grace of spring had broken my heart free from the years of sorrow and hibernation that kept it down.

Then I cleaned.