The Flowers

When we were at the place they buried my Dad, after we all shoveled up the mound of dirt to dump on Dad’s coffin, they brought Mom in a wheelchair to the edge. And gave her a small ball of dirt to throw on it; she threw it then took the flowers – I don’t know if they were on her lap . She started throwing one stalk at a time on top of the dirt on his coffin. I was standing next to her. I took one too, and another and threw them on top with her. Some kind of white with yellow flowers… I won’t forget that moment. It is etched in my memory, while all the childhood memories are like that big pile of dirt. It’s a curse to remember the wrong things. After my Dad died, his eyes were open. I closed each one.