Details

by Lady J

A gloved hand wiped the pine needles from the headstone before placing the ice flowers on the flat surface.

Sharp winds barely lifted the heavy white petals, but she knew that the flowers would stay undisturbed long after she was gone. Visitors to the cemetery were deeply respectful of the offerings left by others.

Turning up the collar of her flight jacket to keep the wind off her neck, she squatted down and brushed more needles from the ground in front of the headstone. Reaching into a deep pocket, she pulled out a metal flask and flat wooden box and set them beside her.

Words carried on the wind caught her attention. Standing up, she saw a funeral party standing beside an open grave. There weren't many people in attendance; some family and friends. Her eyes drifted to the little girl standing rigidly at the grave side, her mittened hand held tightly in that of one of her parents. The girl's head turned toward her, as if she sensed someone watching.

Their eyes met, held, then slid away.

Squatting down once more, she picked up the box, opened it and took out some tobacco. She crushed it in her hand then scattered it in front of the headstone. Once she stashed the box back in her pocket, she picked up the flask and poured out a measure of rum.

They smoked and drank together on cold winter nights when she was on ground side assignment. She would tell him about her life among the stars, he shared his achievements on the family farm. He taught her how to hold her liquor, she taught him how to blow rings with the sweet smelling tobacco. They came to their friendship late after a short lifetime of misunderstanding; discovered that they liked many of the same things, had some friends in common.

They had no idea that their new found kinship would blossom and fade so quickly.

Her father had called her home when he was dying. She had taken every transport she could get to make it back in time. Her father's face when he met her at the spaceport told her everything. In her old bedroom at home, her brother's wasted form lay in the large, comfortable bed that her father had bought for him. He seemed to be sleeping, but she knew better.

So she sat beside him, and held his hand as his chest rose and fell one last time. She whispered in his ear that their mother was waiting for him as were their grandparents. That everything was all right and that he could go. That she loved him, and would miss him but that it was time for him to move on.

When it was over, she sat on the front steps of the house with her father. Plans for his burial had already been made but nothing could happen until the next day. So they sat. They didn't talk; the silence was too big to fill up with words.

At the service the next day, she probably looked very much like the little girl. A little shell shocked, a little worse for wear. She left home again not too long after that. Came back when she could for the first few years, and then not at all.

Until this year. This year, the pull to go back and pay homage to his grave was overwhelming. Her father simply opened up a room for her and set dinner on the table as if she came to visit on a regular basis.

And now she was squatting in the permafrost, pouring libations and sprinkling tobacco on a dead man's grave.

"Bastard," she whispered. "You didn't have to be so fucking persistent."

He was probably laughing his ass off somewhere in the afterlife.

She stood again and saluted his headstone with the flask before downing the last of the rum. Stashing the flask in her jacket, she looked over again at the burial party. They had wrapped up the service and workers moved in to shovel the earth into the open grave. The little girl was still standing there while her parents spoke to the minister, her pale face thoughtful and solemn.

The girl had the look. She'd be back to tend the grave, to keep it clean and tidy. Probably put her flowers in a pretty vase instead of on top of the headstone like some people.

Like herself.

But it suited her, this haphazard remembrance. Somehow, it fit.

She leaned forward and pressed her hand briefly against the headstone as if to take a piece of it with her. She didn't know when she'd be back; her flowers would be long withered away by the time she came by here again. But she would come back. She'd bring more rum, maybe some better tobacco the next time.

And more ice flowers for the top of the headstone.

In Memorium: Thomas Walter Gross
November 20, 1963 - July 7, 1990