Winter Flowers

TW: Mention of death

Early sunshine seared through the window, giving the woman a glowy look even though she was dead. Her body was lying stiffly under the covers of her bed, but her arms were out, revealing her thin hands, and Martha stared. When the clouds swept over the sun, the woman’s glowy look disappeared, and Martha’s mother looked older than she remembered. Creases appeared around her nose and her mouth, but her face was full of peace. More peace than when she was alive.

“Martha,” the voice was so far away the girl didn’t even bother to acknowledge it; instead, her eyes trailed down to her mother's arms. The same arms that had comforted her yesterday after a horrible day at school. How could she have been so selfish? Her mother spent her last day comforting her when she was the one who had needed comfort the most. Martha’s eyes began to burn, and she swallowed hard; her hands were clammy, so she clasped them together.

“Martha,” the voice repeated.

The girl blinked back her tears and slowly turned around. A tall, older man was in the doorway. He carried his hat in his hands, revealing his balding head.

“You shouldn’t be here. Come with me, sweetheart,” he said softly and extended his hand to her, but Martha quietly turned back around and stared at her mother. She held her breath, waiting for some kind of movement. Maybe she was in a deep sleep? Maybe Martha will wake up, and this will all be a bad dream.

“Martha,” a cold hand grasped hers. “Come on,” the man dragged her out of the bedroom. Martha kept her head down as they walked through the hallway because she knew that if she looked up, she would be reminded of how lively her mother had once been. It made her sick to her stomach that her mother was still in that small bedroom, in her bed, rotting. Martha looked up at her father as they walked down the stairs. How would he ever be able to sleep in that bed again? Or sleep at all?

Later that day, Martha watched as two men carried her mother’s lifeless body down the stairs and out of the house. She was on a stretcher with a thin white sheet over her. Panic rose in her chest, and Martha jumped up to her feet and ran after the men. She stopped in front of them, just before they could get fully out of the door.

“Wait!” she held her little hands out, “Wait, you can’t take her!”

The men looked at each other and back at her with pity. Martha’s breath was uneven from running so hard, and she stared at the stretcher.

“You can’t take her yet!” she put her arms down, “Please, let me see her,”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said the man on the right.

“She’s my mother! I want to see her!” Martha demanded.

The men looked at each other again, then lowered the stretcher onto the wooden porch floor. Martha stayed where she was for a few seconds and then crouched down next to the body. She pulled back the sheet. Her mother’s skin was pale, as if she had turned into a ghost. Her lips were turning a dark blue and were crusted from dryness. Martha’s eyes filled with tears, and her vision blurred. She reached out and placed a hand on her mother’s cheek, almost flinching back at how cold her body was. She was ice. The smell of death was strong, but it wasn’t a putrid stench; it was her mother's perfume. Martha had smelled it so many times that she barely noticed it until now. It had a flowery scent, but she couldn’t remember the flower. Martha cupped her mother's face as tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheek. This would be the last time she would ever smell this perfume again.

The next day, they had her burial. Her father wanted to have a funeral where relatives would come to visit, but because of the weather, that would not happen. Outside, snow piled up, and the world looked frozen. Icicles stuck to roofs and lakes were solid. Martha watched as her father and another man poured a mix of dirt and snow into the hole where her mother lay. Little whirls of white air puffed out of their mouths as they dug and dug and dug. Martha clasped her gloved hands together and watched silently.

After the burial, Martha and her father walked home in silence. They did not have a far walk since they buried mother near the lake by the house. It was her favorite spot, especially in the spring. It was so beautiful in the spring. The lake was alive and flowing, and the birds were singing and soaring freely. Martha and her mother would sit on the grass near the lake, letting bugs crawl on their legs, and the blades of grass itch the palms of their hands.

“Look at this, Martha,” mother picked something from the grass and held it up. Martha lifted her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her mother held up a little purple flower that faded to white at the bottom.

“Crocuse,” she said, and smiled at her daughter, “Oh, I love these, they are my favorites."

Martha rested her chin on her arm. “Why are they your favorites?” she asked, scrunching her irritated nose. The springtime allergies always got to her.

“Because they are the first flowers of spring,” her mother placed the flower in Martha’s dark hair, “The first sign that the new things will bloom and the trees will come alive.” Her mother lay down on the grass, her long hazelnut hair outstretched on the grass like the branches on the trees. That was the last spring Martha saw her mother lying in the grass and enjoying the sun beaming on her skin. Then she got sick.

The weeks that passed after the burial were lifeless. The lights were dimmer than usual, and the sun was out, but it rarely made its way through the windows, leaving the house dark and cold. Martha watched her father. Most of the time, he read a lot and spent most of his time at the kitchen table, grading essays he received from his college class he taught during the week. Martha spent her time walking around the house, staring out of the windows, doing anything but going outside. She had missed one week of school and dreaded talking to her father about it because she knew he would make her go if she brought it up.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” she said.

Her father looked up from an essay he was deeply into. He raised his eyebrows and took off his glasses, “Are you sure?”

Martha nodded, placing her hands behind her back.

“Well, okay,” he smiled, “I think that’s a great idea.”

“Would you like to come with me?” she asked.

Her father’s smile faded, and he looked down at the mess of papers on the table, then back up at his daughter. “I don’t think I can, not today,” his voice was stiff.

Martha put on her winter clothes and left the house. She stopped at the last step, staring far ahead, where she knew her mother's grave was. Then, she stepped out into the snow, and her winter boots sank into the deep snow. She began to walk toward the frozen lake and her mother's grave. The wind was light, but even the slightest breeze that touched Martha’s face slightly burned. She re-wrapped her scarf around her neck and covered her mouth. She was a traveller, marching through the snow, fighting to get to her dead mother.

When Martha reached the patch of dirt, she plopped down on her knees and folded her hands on her lap. She stared at the grave. Should she say something? Maybe give her an update

on her father? But she couldn’t speak. There was a heavy ball in her throat, and it hurt to swallow. There would be no more springtime bird watching, rock painting, lake days, the house would be empty, and the lights would stay dim. Martha pulled down her scarf and wiped her nose with her arm, then she wiped her eyes.

She put her hands in the snow and sat down, with her legs stretched out. When she pulled her hands back in, something caught her attention. Color. Unusual color for snow. Martha began to dig out the color, only to find that it came from little purple and white flowers. Their petals were wet with melted snow. Martha picked one of the white ones and held it close to her face. She recognized this flower. It was a springtime flower— a crocus. Martha picked all the little flowers and placed them in the dirt of the grave.

She lifted her legs to her chest and hugged them, watching as the small petals lightly blew in the wind. Springtime was coming.

A crunch in the snow caught her attention, and she looked up. It was her father. He looked at the flower-decorated grave and took a seat next to her.

“Those are beautiful flowers,” he said.

“They are crocuses,” she replied, “the first flowers of spring.” She looked at him.

Her father stared at the grave. He took off his glasses and slipped them in his coat pocket, blinking back tears.

“Your mother was an amazing woman,” he said softly and looked at her, “She was so strong, that’s where you get it from.”

Martha watched as tears flooded down his face and he quickly wiped them away, “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,”

Martha scooted toward him and leaned her head on his arm.

“It’s okay, Dad,” her voice was low, “I know.”

Her father wrapped his arms around her and began to sob. Martha hugged him back, feeling his tears wet the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said and ran his hand over her hair, “I am so sorry,”

Martha and her father sat in the cold, wrapped in each other's arms, feeling the warmth of one another. Then, after thirty minutes had passed, her father sat up and took a deep breath. He looked at her and smiled.

“Why don’t we go home and do something fun?” he said.

“Like what?” Martha watched as her father stood up, and then he helped her up.

“Well,” he said as they walked back to the house, “We could go into town and visit the museum, or… we could stay home, and you could teach me how to bake some bread.”

Martha smiled, “Really? You want me to teach you?”

“Of course, I think this is the perfect weather for some warm bread,”

Martha held on to her father's hand and watched as their steps created footprints in the snow. His were a lot larger than hers. She turned her head and looked back at her mother's grave. From where she was, it was just a patch of dirt, with specks of color poking out of it.

And one day, when spring arrived, and when the trees are full of leaves as green as the algae that clumped together at the top of the lake, and when the grass no longer is hidden and the bugs can come out to continue their lives, and when Martha’s allergies come back because of the pollen that collected in the air, and when the air smelled like flowers and trimmed grass, Martha’s mother’s grave would be full of beautiful little flowers, always reminding her that no matter what awful season came by beauty always bloomed through it and everything always got better.