May Day can mean different things, depending on who you are. For some it’s a time to dance around a pole with ribbons (I never understood why). For some it’s a cry of distress. In old Russia, it was a time to celebrate. It still is for the Klan.
I called the Attorney on the way down to Knoxville.
“I’m coming to town.”
He wasn’t expecting it. So. he asked if everything is okay.
“Fine. I’m going to see my mama.”
May Day is the anniversary of my mother’s death. Eighteen years ago, today. I have not had a mother four years more than I had one.
“Do you need some company or is it something private,” he asked me.
“I always go by myself.”
“Oh.” I sensed a little bit of disappointment in his response.
“But, if you want to…” I offered.
He got there much later than I did. I figured it was because he was coming from work. But he said he just wanted to give me some alone time. Plus, it turns out, he stopped on the way to get a little potted plant to leave for mama.
He handed me his jacket and squatted on the balls of his feet, careful to not let the knees of his suit pants hit the grass. He clawed at the ground with his bare hands and used his long fingers to dig out a 2-inch square spot. He plugged the flower into the little hole and mashed the earth around it with the flat of his big hands.
I questioned whether it was allowed that we plant our own things.
His knees popped as he stood up and brushed off his fingertips. “I don’t know. But the plot is paid for, right? Seems to me you can do what you want.”
He made a good point. Plus, it made my mother’s simple little grave seem a little less lonely.
She’s there all by herself. My father was buried someplace else. (Not sure why.) But my granddaddy is someplace else, too. And Granny will joining him when the time comes. There’s room for me. But, I want to be set on fire instead of decaying in the ground.
It makes me worry that I don’t visit more than once a year.
The Attorney says that once a year is acceptable. I don’t know. Acceptable doesn’t mean right.
It was awfully quiet out there on a Thursday evening. About the only sound was the breeze that was bringing the clouds threatening rain.
So we stood there in silence.
I never talk out loud to mama. I always feel a little silly when I do. Because she doesn’t answer back out loud.
Eventually the Attorney came up and bumped his shoulder against mine. It’s his version of PDA. I slipped my arm around his lower back and pulled him a little closer.
“This is him,” I said out loud.
And it didn’t feel silly.
May Day is the day that I introduced the Attorney to my mother.
Friday Afternoon Just Off I-40
Posted in humor, observations | 
14 Comments »
e-mail me
Loading ...
