No Amount of Color

A girl gets flowers for a grave.

Mari did not understand the concept of putting flowers on graves. Actually, not only did she not understand the concept, she hated it. It was a pointless and stupid tradition in her book. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was started years ago by some flower company, as a ploy to sell more products.

Yet despite her forming hatred of the act, here she was. Driving on some god forsaken road in the middle of nowhere, in the effort to go to the only flower shop listed on her phone after it's terribly slow search.

Kansas, despite being both her parent’s place of origin, was not a familiar area to her. She was used to Oregon, with its forests filled with tall trees and much taller mountains. Frankly, the sharp and obvious difference between her home and the wide open fields surrounding her now prodded at her uncomfortably as the land seemed too flat, too unvaried. It had felt like she had been driving on this road for ages, only passing more and more plains of crops that all looked the same. She wondered vaguely what kind of crop they were. Maybe wheat, with their muted yellowish color, although with her nonexistent knowledge of agriculture, she could have been driving past weeds for the last fifteen minutes and not known it.

Both of her parents had grown up in small towns, half an hour from anywhere remotely close to being called a city. To be honest, her mom's hometown was relaxing. Cute in how it was small and cozy. The fresh air and untouched nature around her also helped to sooth her nerves. Mari probably would have loved it here and enjoyed the vacation from her bustling Portland if it were under better circumstances.

They were here to support her great aunt and uncle, who were mourning the death of her grandfather, Lewis Williams.

She hadn’t known her Grandfather Lewis very well. Her family had never gotten around to visit very much, especially as she grew older. And now, at seventeen, it was hard for her to remember much about the man. She could remember his house that they stayed at, the collection of newspaper clippings of horse races on his wall, and, quite vividly, the old tabby cat named Peaches he had. Beyond that, Mari found things difficult to recall.

They couldn’t attend the funeral. Her mom had a conference and Mari had been tied down with school. Mari had been to funerals before though, and she was honestly fine with missing one. She remembered the funeral for her grandmother on her dad's side, Grandma Gracie, who she had known well enough to cry for and mourn. She had lived close enough to visit regularly and she had grown up swimming together and playing board games with her. She had fond memories involving gingerbread houses and icing.

Her funeral had been quiet and sharp and drowning in sorrow all at once. She remembered absolutely nothing of what was said, only that words were said, either calm and scripted or emotional and heartfelt. She remembered it was small, filled with others she didn’t know but who were just as sad and that the bench they sat on was on a hill, tilting her world as the ceremony passed. Mari hadn’t cried until after it ended, when everyone was leaving. One of her grandmothers friends gave her a glass bird, something that was common to see on one of her grandmothers window sills, glinting with light. Mari had clutched the gift tightly and proceeded to cry her eyes out until they got home later that evening.

So yeah, Mari was okay with missing another one of those. They had got a letter in the mail: a pamphlet filled with pictures of her grandfather when he was younger and healthier. It probably had some nice words but Mari hadn’t read it - she had been distracted by the strangeness of getting a pamphlet for a funeral she had missed.

She was on spring break now, and Mari and her mother had flown on a plane to Kansas two days in. They had caught up with relatives and family friends, or rather her mother had while Mari had spent her time lazing about until needed. Her mom had already visited his grave without her and was currently going through his stuff with Mari’s great aunt and uncle. It was this morning that her mother had prompted her to visit herself.

“You should go and visit, it's a very nice cemetery… Buy some flowers on the way there for the grave,” she’d said. It was the way she had said it though, softly with a bittersweet smile that reminded Mari of how her mother had taken a day off work when she had first heard of his passing. It reminded her that this was her mother's father, her grandfather.

Mari was only buying the pointless flowers because of that comment. However, this small adventure away from the house was refreshing after so many days of doing nothing.

She reached the flower shop just as some clouds began to roll though the previously clear sky. It was colorful and quaint, squeezed between two other shops on the outskirts of the city and just seemed to radiate “small business.” Flowers of all kinds lined the windows, and there were even some outside on the sidewalk by the entrance.

Mari parked and walked in, a bell signaling her arrival above her head.

“Welcome!” yelled an employee further in the store.

Mari was surrounded on all sides by flowers of all colors and sizes. She saw collections of pots and seeds, along with a section dedicated solely to gardening equipment. She steered herself towards the bouquet area and instantly felt more overwhelmed by the sheer variety of choices in front of her.

She ran her fingertips over the soft petals of the marigolds, that although pretty, felt too bright with their bold yellow for her to deal with today. She stared at some colorful hydrangeas, but eventually settled on a premade bouquet of pink carnations and arum lilies.

She went up to the register and purchased her choice efficiently, dropping it in a plastic bag for easier transportation as she walked out the door.

The cemetery was a short drive, and her thoughts circled back around to her frustration with the flowers. It was after she had pulled up, parked, and was standing outside the graveyard that the thought occurred to her that maybe they were a desperate attempt to add color to the dull field of stones. The field felt void of vibrancy in a way that reminded her of old photo albums. Despite the neat, green grass and the existence of other bouquets about, the land was dull and muted in a way that seemed impenetrable.

She thought, as she walked along the path, reading the names idly to find her place, that it still felt like the plants held no purpose. She remembered vaguely how flowers had certain meanings associated with them, but what did it matter? The dead couldn’t see the flowers you left them, unless you believed in ghosts. But no ghost would know the meaning of the flowers you gave them, and besides, if Mari was stuck as a ghost when she died, she wouldn’t want pity flowers. Flowers, she reminded herself, that would die shortly after their abandonment on the ground.

And here she was. Standing in front of a grave, the grave, his grave. She stared at the cluster of flowers already surrounding the stone, declaring the spot as a recent death.

Her hand clenched around the flowers and her throat tightened and her eyes grew hot. These stupid flowers would change nothing. No ghost would see them. No meaning would be revealed. No amount of color would change this field of carved stone. These tacky plants would rest here and die and rot and decompose within days.

She couldn’t breathe. She was standing above a coffin of someone she would never be able to talk to again, staring at a pathetic rock that was somehow supposed to represent their life.

The dying objects in her hand felt like an excuse. They weren’t for the dead. They were for pathetic people who wanted to feel better, who wanted to justify themselves saying that they cared and they missed them. People who wanted forgiveness and love from those who could no longer provide it. And what a hypocrite she was, standing in front of the grave of a family member who she can’t even remember the middle name of.

James.

Her emotions halted and hesitated and churned as her raging anger and self-aimed fury morphed into pain and sorrow as she stared at the name that was etched out right in front of her.

Lewis James Williams.

Her next breath in was long, wet, and unsteady and her next breath out emerged as a sob. She was crying now, she was grieving now. She sat down on the soft grass with her knees to her chest, her hands crossed in front of her, the carnations hanging loosely in her grasp - almost touching the ground. Tears rolled down her face as she stared at the name of a man she had never known well enough and would never be able to know again. She was regretting her few, short visits and her indifference to his home, his life, his existence. She felt loss for something she had never had and would never have.

She sat there and mourned as the clouds in the sky rolled past bringing a soft breeze with them. Her mind shifted through blurry memories and eventually, after what could have been minutes or an hour, Mari’s breaths were calm and soft, her eyes dry. She stood up slowly, the cemetery around her feeling somehow less oppressive than before. It now felt quiet and peaceful.

She laid her flowers softly next to the others and left the graveyard.