Lines
He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the metaphorical distance. Someone hands me a fifty-cent mint. It sits in the bottom of my pocket.
One of his daughters loved horses, but she worked as a nurse in the city. These two trees hang too far over the highway. They must be cut down. Thunder deafens us. Lightning blinds us. Why does the rain soothe us? This is an example of life being unfair. I have a pocket full of them. I have never touched a horse with anything but my eyes.
One of his daughters cried whenever she looked in the mirror, but the power was out. We eat dinner in the dark, and we do not talk about our day. The closed casket smells of flowers and something burning. My stomach rumbles; I have not eaten today. Someone glares at me. An old woman tells me that’s what the mint is for. Have some respect.
One of his daughters was still his only son. A storm is coming, but he will not be here to see it. A line of cherry pickers park in front of the funeral home. His daughter twists a bottle of water in her hands. The cap goes flying.
Maybe these are all the same daughter. Maybe these are all the same storm, coming and going with the wind. One by one, the cherry pickers follow the hearse to the graveyard. Despite our best efforts, it is not going to rain at his funeral. He had repaired that power line a hundred times. The power had always been cut.
At the empty funeral home, a cherry picker beeps in the distance. A pile of fallen limbs on the street corner gathered one by one, still damp with the rain. I have always wondered where the city takes them.
CS Crowe is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.