Ashes From the Garden

“I really think you should go with the daffodil. It will look better. It's going to be in the springtime. You need those colors to really pop against the background of the season.”
“Mother, you don't even know what it means for a color to pop. You've been watching too much What Not to Wear.”
“I can't help it if it's the only thing on during my lunch break. Besides, they have really good ideas. But that Clinton character. I just don't know about him...I think he's...gay.”
She whispered the word “gay” as if it were some dirty secret that she didn't want to utter in the Baptist sanctuary.
“Just because he wears pink shirts and talks soft doesn't mean he's homosexual.”
“Well, you just never know these days. You'd think we were...”
“In the second hippie movement. I know mother. Before I go burn my bra on Washington, can we please focus here? “
“And he does more than talk soft. He talks like a woman.”
I rolled my eyes and cleared my throat, a technique I unwillingly learned from her.
“Well, I'm just saying is all...ok, ok, ok... so, about the daffodil...”
A grin spread across my face as I interrupted:
“I'm not choosing any colors that are named after flowers. That would make me a conformist to the pattern of roles that women are forced into. It's just one more way society oppresses our rights. Why aren't there colors named after tools and car engine parts? Maybe then we can experience gender equality.”
“I see your Bachelor's degree did you some good, young lady.”
I shifted, balancing myself against a pew. “So, what about macaroni and cheese?”
“I've never heard of such a thing!”
“You're in denial, mother. It was my favorite crayon in my coloring box. Don't you remember the time we argued over the sky on one of my drawings? You tried to explain to me that the sky was blue and should be colored blue, but I told you that it was much cooler to have the sky a macaroni and cheese color because then we could eat it anytime we wanted instead of just on Thursdays.”
She stopped to ponder this for a moment, reviving the wrinkle lines in her forehead. I could tell she was searching long and hard to remember that particular occurrence. She gave up with a sigh.
“I guess we've always had color disharmony.”
I nodded, agreeing. There was a long pause, the kind that bounced off of the walls, hit you, and caused your breath to shorten. I made any attempt I could to fill the empty air.
“So...how do you feel about this, mom? Are you ok with all of this?”
“How ok can a mother be about this sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about”.
“What?”
Now, if you want something that's sort of orange, I saw this beautiful color the other day. It's called “Sunburst”, and it's nice and cheery and...”
“What sort of thing, mother? Why do you refer to it as that? Why don't you call it what it is?”
“I was just rushing through the sentence. It was a phrase, that's all. Just a phrase.”
“Then why don't you call it what it is?”
“What what is?”
“What this is, the whole reason we're fighting over a ridiculous thing like color choice?”
I saw her fumble a little with her thought process, trying not to let my words connect to her understanding.“Well, I don't know. Listen, can we talk about this later? I'm really wanting to decide on some colors today so we can start placing orders.”
“What orders, mother? Do you even understand what you're saying?!”
“Why is this even an issue, Iris Marie? We had already talked about how this is what we were going to do today; we were going to come here to you father's sanctuary, pick out some colors that fit with the palette, and go shopping. That was the plan. Why has this changed?”
I bit my lip, crossing my arms against the December air that entered through a crack in the window. I understood her confusion. I was the one who had decided to come here today. I was the one who wanted to think about it. But now that I was here, the last thing I wanted to do was admit that this was a reality. The quickest way to do so was to let it manifest itself through our planning. And I didn't want that. I tried to ignore the weakness I felt, and the overwhelming need to sit down.
“I'm going to ask you again, mother. Are you ok with this?”
She shifted her eyes, counting the tiles on the ceiling, the same tiles that had been there twenty years prior. She knew how many tiles there were. My question hung itself from silent gallows.
I ran the palm of my hand over my head. It was weird to not feel hair there anymore. This was the one hairstyle I hadn't decided for myself. The bright side was, I now showered ten minutes less, and I didn't have to worry about going through one shampoo bottle a month.
Her mouth trembled, and I knew the quiet of that moment was the only response I would receive.
“So...what kind of flowers do you think I'll get?” I asked.
Her voice shattered against a concealed sob. I put my hand on her shoulder, waiting for a response, any response, anything to kill the emptiness I felt when silence reigned. She dabbed her wet eyes with a handkerchief, and replied with a forced smile, “Daffodils. Lots of daffodils.”

wedding=misery

My life has been very annoying lately.
I have decided I hate the process of getting married.
I don't hate the actual act of it; that is wonderful and amazing and a testament of how God brought me and Wesley together. What I hate is everyone thinking that I have to go with what they think I should have, and if I don't, they either see me as A) controlling and snobby or B) trying to make my wedding elaborate. It seems everyone in my family thinks I have an elaborate plan in mind. Nevermind the fact that we're getting married at a place that is fifty million miles in the boonies with no running water because we're trying to save money. Nevermind that we cut our honeymoon in half just so we could save money. Nevermind that we're choosing a reception site that is outside with no bathroom as well, because it's cheap. Nevermind all of that.

So what if I would like for the flower girl dress to not be poofy, seeing as none of the other dresses will be poofy, so that might look weird. And it's not like I'm hell bent on that. I just think it would look better. But I haven't communicated that it's that way or die. Not at all. But if I suggest ANY opinion about my OWN wedding, I'm viewed as this extravagant person.

This is why I want to hop in the car right now and go to Vegas.
And the Aunt I'm closest to has already said she can't help with wedding stuff the day before. Ok, this makes no sense, seeing as she has bent over backwards for people in our family that don't appreciate it. I can't understand why she's decided this, and it's very hurtful. She's one of the main persons I was depending on to help arrange flowers and such.

I know my sister is jealous of what I'm going to have, and she's going to make me as miserable as possible for it. I know she's going to have everything to say about things I choose and she's going to say something about the prices or choices. I know her. I know she is. I can't deal with that on my wedding day. I WON'T deal with that on my wedding day. No one is going to make me miserable. But I know she will try.

This is what's mostly been going on in my life.

Wesley and I did have a breakthrough. And it was beautiful. We both broke down before the Lord, and He has restored us in a supernatural way. I love it.

That is it. I'm just really burdened by my family right now. I don't know how I expected wedding details to go smoothly when they're involved. I don't know what I was thinking.

Runaway

We sat on the edge of the man-made creek which cut between East and Cherrywood Street. We had gone here to escape the reality that was inside the building behind us. We skipped stones, frustrations pushing their force across the Spring air. They collided into the murky creek bed, and the water looked shallow enough that we might be able to cross it barefooted. I marveled at the thought of crossing a body of water the same way Jesus had. I wasn't sure where Jesus was today and why He wasn't giving me the right words to say to the girl beside me. I looked up at the cirrus clouds, hoping a flash of lightening-bolt revelation would find its way into my head. The birds framed the sky, their feathers caressed by the breeze. I wished I could give her those wings. I wished I could pluck several birds right out of the sky, tie her to them, and send her on her way. She didn't need to know where she was going. She only had to know that she was getting away from here.
I didn't like looking at the body. I never understood the reason for a viewing. It seemed to me that it was only a torturous way to prolong grief. Bodies never looked real. I had reached out to touch her once out of curiosity, and she felt waxy and solid. Her wiry gray hair made it look as if she'd just come from the beauty parlor and laid down for a rest. Her hands were clasped, as if she were in eternal prayer. I didn't really understand why she had been posed that way. There would be no praying for her anymore. The fragrance of flowers cradled her, and it reminded me of the scene from The Wizard of Oz when Dorthy laid down to rest in the poppies. The dress fit snuggly, as if it had hung in her closet a year before today. I cried, and I didn't know why. I looked at the husband, now a widow, and I wondered how he would take care of himself after all of those years of being waited on. Most of all, I watched beautiful Nicole. I watched her every move, from each strand of chocolate brown hair pushed strategically behind her ear each time she thought she might cry, to the way she held her red mouth tightly, refusing to let a sob overtake her.
I didn't know the woman. She was my cousin Nicole's grandmother. Nicole and I had met just two Novembers from that date. She wasn't a blood cousin, and we never noticed. Since our encounter, we were given countless rules on long distance phone calls, grounded for breaking those rules, and inseparable when the summer months came. We got little sleep. At night, we ate whole Chocolate cakes and drank liters of Jolt cola. I loved the way her house smelled. The laundry room was usually open, so the scent of Tide would carry into each room of the house, along with dirt from her dad's farm boots and her mother's soft perfume. Most of all, it smelled lived-in. I had recently moved into a new house, and it didn't have that smell. My house was cold and uninviting, like a model car museum.
I knew it was coming that afternoon. Her parents had set me aside, telling me that Nicole's grandmother had died, and asking me if I minded going with them to the funeral. They wanted me to be there when Nicole heard the news. I agreed, but the pressure of not knowing what to do or say left me paralyzed. They sat her down in that inviting living room, and she cried for what seemed like centuries. I held her, letting her tears soak my bare sunburned shoulder. We soon packed up the family van and headed to Pennsylvania. During the ride up, I made silly faces and told stories to keep her mind occupied with meaningless mush.We played Hanson casettes in our tape players and argued over which brother would be ours. I didn't want her to think about the reality any more than she had to. It was typical Ashley and Nicole time. It was, however, slightly sobered with the underlying reason why we were driving twelve hours away from her home.
When we approached the steps to the funeral home, I felt her weight falter under my tightened grip. I hadn't brought any black dresses to Nicole's house that summer. I hadn't expected anyone to die. I borrowed a dress from her aunt. It pinched my skin each time I walked, as if it were angry its original owner had given it to a stranger. I readjusted my grip on her arm, fumbling a bit. The thing I hated the most about funerals was that no one smiled. As we entered, everyones' faces were strained and complicated. I didn't like that. I hoped that at my funeral, people who be smiling and pleasant. But then I thought that might mean that they were happy I was gone; then I decided I wanted everyone at my funeral to look as miserable as possible. We went through the viewing line, and I watched each encounter a person had with the grandmother. Some wept, grabbing her lifeless hands, squeezing them to point where I thought they might break a finger off. Others smiled and had conversations with her, as if they were finally making that phone call they'd put off for so many months. Some sat there in silent nostalgia, while others did quick sweeps to avoid the awkwardness of looking at a corpse. After Nicole and I retreated from the box, she said, “I have to get out of here. I can't be here anymore.” I studied her expression. I knew that look on her face. It was the same look she'd give me when she was explaining something extremely important to me. That is how we found ourselves overlooking the creek.
I sat crouched beneath the afternoon sun. I would glance over at her every moment, wondering if she was waiting for me to say something profound. I usually consoled her during every struggle, but this was one thing I couldn't offer words for. She finally returned my nervous glance, and I knew that she just wanted someone to stay beside her. Nature filled in the gaps of silence, from the dialect of those sky birds to the breeze through blades of grass. I held my breath under the emptiness. My sigh broke the stillness. I squinted against the rays, turning to her silhouette. I motioned toward the water. “Think we could catch a raft and sail away like Tom Sawyer?” Her nose crinkled, the way it would right before she attempted a smile. She had to read the book for summer school, and I remembered how she'd told me that Tom's attempted escapes from his home on a timber boat were enviable and inspiring. She shrugged her fatigued shoulders, and I could tell she had been tensing them just seconds before. A dimple framed her lipstick-worn mouth. “Sure, why not?” I squeezed her flushed hand, and in that moment, we ran. We ran past reality, and imagination stole its place. We ran away from the building behind us, into the space in front of us. We ran until we didn't recognize anything anymore, and we ran to be lost.

These Walls are Worlds between Us

I noticed the cuts on her wrist as we were pulling away from our trailer. She had slept late again, and I was driving her to school for what seemed to be the millionth time that semester. We sat in the car, the inside stiff with the Mississippi sun that had already heated the dash. She pushed back her sleeves, and that's when I saw them. I knew she felt my eyes on her, and she looked away nervously. She pulled the sleeves back down on her windbreaker, despite the fact that it was close to 80 degrees that day. There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't wear that navy jacket. I hadn't given it too much thought. She had always been insecure, and I just figured it was a security blanket for her. “How did you cut your wrists?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant. She darted her eyes, as if she were scanning some invisible checklist in the air in front of her. She pretended not to hear me. I had turned the radio on, and she tried to hide behind the lyrics. I reached over and turned down the dial. “Angela...how did you cut your wrists?” I saw her wince at my tone, the tone I could never really perfect to sound nurturing. Instead, it always came out shrill and annoying. “I...I was climbing a tree. I fell, and it scraped the side of my wrist.” I knew she was lying. It wasn't something that surprised me. She had been lying to me for quite some time.
I took the job at Winn Dixie bakery because I couldn't find a position as a Social Worker on the coast. I thought I had made a good decision moving us from the rigid wintry state of Illinois to the South. The beach was fifteen miles from our home, and it reminded me of my parents. I wanted more for Angela. She wasn't making friends at her school. They saw to it that they teased her for her clothing and thick glasses. I couldn't afford to give her what the other mothers had given their daughters, and because of my inability, she was punished. I vowed I would make things different for her. So, on a whim only supported by the location of my brother, we packed our things and moved into a two bedroom trailer just off of Highway 53. It was light green with dark green shutters; we had picked the colors out ourselves. Ashley's favorite color was green, just like her father's. He had died of heart failure fourteen years prior, and I still hadn't gotten used to his absence. But he was always there. Every time Angela smiled, her lopsided grin was identical to his. Her dark chocolate eyes were shaped the same as his had been, and she had the same sweet spirit. I didn't realize that bringing her here would erase that from her.
She began to withdraw about two years later. I worked until six most nights, and when I came home, she was usually locked in her room. I had been through this with her sister and brother, and I wasn't about to admit that there were any problems with her. She had always had it together, and it was simply a phase she would grow out of. I just knew it. She blasted music the same way her brother had when he was younger. Her Korn was his Kiss. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes, she would stare blankly as I talked to her, as if she were listening to someone behind me. I passed it all off as normal teenage behavior. That was all I could do not to locate any problems I couldn't deal with. I was lucky to even get home safely each day. My body was wearied from long hours at the bakery, and I would usually plop down in my chair as soon as I got home. Back problems from an accident left me hurting all the time, and my patience was always on the fringes of compromise.
The friends she brought to the house were definitely not the type I would have expected her to have. Of course, this was around the time that she had started changing so much. She wore baggy clothes and hung her hair in her face. She talked little to me but would stay on the phone with those friends until three in the morning. I knew this because even when I would tell her I didn't want her on the phone, she would sneak the cordless into her bedroom at night. I had to take the phone out of the wall and keep it in my room to prevent this. That always made her the angriest. When she looked at me in those moments, her dark chocolate eyes had changed from her father's to someone I didn't know at all. Her friends were into witchcraft, and it worried me slightly. But I was so busy trying to keep us from filing bankruptcy that I couldn't worry about the changes that were taking place in her life. She had friends like she always wanted, and that was my goal when we moved to Mississippi. I considered my job well done.
After I dropped her off at school that day, the marks on her arm were fresh wounds in my mind. I hadn't bought her story, not for one second. I knew she had been cutting herself. I tried to piece together all of the warning signs that had preceded this event. Little by little, I connected the distant dots and realized what had been occurring all those months I had been so worried about our finances. She was slipping away from me, and the reason why was simply that I didn't know why.
I tried to make things better. I thought of all the things that had made her happy as a child, and I quickly began throwing them at her depression. One day we would go shopping; the next day to a movie. But throughout all of this, she still remained disconnected. I watched a movie on Lifetime about a girl who would cut herself. My efforts were exasperated, and I called her in to watch it with me. “Do you want to be like this girl?!” I screamed at her. I screamed a lot these days. I never wanted to be a screamer. She gave me a murderous scowl, and returned to the cave she dwelt in. I cried that night, and I wished that her father was there at my bedside. He would know what to do.
The school called me the next day. I had just finished putting a tray of cinnamon buns on the cooling rack when the phone was handed to me. An unfamiliar voice occupied the other line. It explained to me that Angela had brought alcohol to school and would be expelled for the remainder of the year. I gripped the phone, hoping that if I squeezed it hard enough, it would disintegrate into dream dust, and I would wake up from this horrible nightmare. But it only left my arthritic hand aching more. I remember crying harder than I had in a long time, and I'm sure it echoed throughout the store. That drive was one of the longest I had ever made. As I walked into the office, Angela's face was tear-streaked and swollen. She explained to me that she was sorry, but I could barely look at her. The disappointment I felt overcame my ability to offer comfort.
The drive home was silent and stabbing. She sucked her breath in between sobs, pulling at the sleeves of her jacket. We pulled up to the trailer, and instead of walking ahead of me like she had normally done, she waited for me to go inside first. I could feel her eyes on me, but I ignored her. I wished there had been music playing so there would be more of reason as to why I was ignoring her. When she finally gave up on locking eyes with me, she retreated to her bedroom. She slowly edged the door from its position and I turned my back from her. When I felt she had entered her room, I turned around. I saw something I hadn't seen in two years. The door wasn't closed. The crack hung in the air, illuminating the doorframe.