Don

The roses are pleased to be chosen for the funeral of such a prestigious man. They wait dutifully at the foot of his casket in an elegant vase, their white petals reaching towards the crowd gathering under the morning sky. A woman is first to approach the casket- the widow, as the roses presume. She is tall and slender, an angular force in a black dress, with a lace trimmed handkerchief clutched between two hands. She turns to gaze at the body nestled in silk.

“Oh, Don,” she sighs, “You never were an early riser.” The woman chuckles before starting suddenly and glancing around her, covering her mouth with the lacy fabric. Laughter bubbles in her throat as she looks at the dead man, her husband of more than thirty years. A couple with connections. Influence. Just look at his cufflinks, hidden now in the shade of the coffin. Diamond and gold to match his wedding ring, his tie clip. See the ring’s match straining against his widow’s finger. Behold the casket itself, oaken and gleaming, lined with white. A couple that persevered from high school to the very end, if the funeral program is to be believed. 

The roses know better. They heard the mortician talking with the director in the funeral home last night. The two men were certain that nobody would hear them in that purgatory of white, sterile walls. And, of course, no body did hear them. But as everyone knows, roses are terrible gossips, quick to blossom in exchange for a good story.

“Shame to lose such an upstanding guy,” the mortician had remarked, recognizing the deceased as Mr. Don Colvert.

The director snorted, then seeing the mortician’s raised eyebrows, replied, “Oh, you were serious? I mean, he did a lot to rebuild this town, yeah. But didn’t you hear about the scandal?”

The mortician shook his head, so the director continued, “A girl showed up on Don’s doorstep saying she’s his daughter. Apparently her mother was his secretary back in the 80's. Dead now, though. Bunch of walking cliches, if you ask me.”

“Damn. Do you think she’ll show tomorrow?” the mortician asked.

“The daughter? Yeah, I expect we’ll see her. ” the director answered, moving toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then added, “Don’t mention it to Sheri though. She was right mad when that girl showed up the first time. Not that I blame her.” 

“I won’t,” the mortician assured him and followed the director out, leaving the roses to bloom in the night.

The widow, Sheri, is crying now, or at least dabbing her eyes periodically, and in the midst of this grieving motion is when the second woman approaches. The flowers gasp, lean in, for there is no doubt that this is the fabled daughter. The same heavy amber locks that lay heavy on her brow ring the head of the man in the oaken chest, creating a fiery halo around each. Both are laden with red despite the man’s old age and subsequent death. The profile, too, of the woman is unmistakably Don’s, with the same decisive chin and aquiline nose. The curve of her cheek is the curve of his, revealing a goodnatured countenance.

The younger woman approaches the casket and the wife with it. She runs her hands along the polished wood, caresses the silken lining, and pauses only when her hand hovers over the face of her father. Sheri watches, clenching her jaw and crumpling the handkerchief in the hand.

“Alison,” the widow hisses. The daughter doesn’t reply, instead pulls back her hand abruptly. She pushes her hair from her face, already beaded with sweat in the early heat of summer. There are no clouds in sight. The expanse of blue pours sunshine on the two women, the crowd behind them, the stilled face between them, the gleaming oak, and the roses watching it all. Alison does not reply.

The roses sigh in the brief silence, before the preacher announces the start of the service, interrupting the women’s locked eyes. They find their seats without further comment. Knowing that atonement is never theirs, the flowers tune out the preacher, focusing instead on the two women seated in the front row. Only the humid air hangs like a veil between them. They do not look at each other. Their arms do not brush. Both angle away from each other and lean into the beating sun. 

The preacher concludes his message with a prayer and a call to rise. The crowd of suits and dresses moves with the holy man. The auburn halo is closed from the sky. The casket is raised against the burning blue expanse. Sheri stands as the others pass, imagining her husband’s locks shimmering against the shadowed silk. The roses are grateful to be left behind.

Alison also remains. The shaking of the widow’s thin shoulders grabs at her. The undoing of the done. The mascara streaks on a face that is always freshly powdered, on a woman who is never late, who smells even now of fresh linen and lavender. Her sobs shine like laughter. Alison reaches for her, places her hand on the older woman’s, almost caressing her. Sheri jumps at the touch, the flaming halo still imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. The smell of roses presses against her tongue.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the widow says, without turning. But Alison is shaking her head already.

“He was my father. It’s my right to be here,” the daughter replies, her voice pleading for peace in the cemetery.

“And it’s my right to say goodbye to my husband without his bastard looking on,” Sheri shoots back, lips curled and eyes alight. 

“His bastard,” Alison repeats in a thin voice, low and aching. She shakes her head again, murmuring now, “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”

“You started it,” Sheri retorts quickly, then flushes crimson, “This is juvenile. You knew you weren’t wanted.”

Alison stares at her father’s widow. The roses pause in anticipation. Noticing the silence, the absence of retreating footsteps, the widow and the daughter turn as one toward the crowd of suits and dresses waiting in the shimmering heat. Choreographed in mourning, the women gather the flowers and head to the open grave. The blooms are open completely now, filling the air with their perfumed thanks. The scent surrounds the mourners as the women move through them, handing a stem to every waiting hand, until they find themselves next to the coffin, both relieved of all but one rose apiece. 

Alison turns to the widow, says in a clear voice, “I was always wanted.” The phrase means little to the crowd but everything to the roses. The daughter tosses her flower into the grave, the petals crashing softly against the polished oak, before turning to leave. Sheri watches Alison walk away, allowing herself for the first time to study the hair burning like embers in the morning light. The hair that so closely resembles her husband’s. Sheri’s shoulders fall and begin to tremble again. The handkerchief hangs loosely from her left hand, and she looks down at the rose in her right. Two flames blaze behind her eyes, obscuring the white blossom. Her scalp stings in the rising sun. Sweat beads on her lip. She drops the last flower into the grave and breathes through her mouth, tasting the soil, the heat, the roses.

“She has your eyes, your name, your hair...” Sheri’s voice breaks as she spits the words into the grave, “But I know you didn’t love her. You didn’t love anything but your own reflection.” 

The roses smile as she moves from them. The diggers take up their shovels, and the blooms are reclaimed by the earth.