A Tough Wednesday

Today at 11:30 AM, an amazing woman, my grandmother, Catherine Bane passed away. She got very sick out of the blue the day I left for my family vacation which was Saturday. We left Boston last evening around 6PM, cutting our trip understandably short, and set a course straight for the hospital arriving just after 6 AM. It just feels strange putting up a post without letting you, my friends and loved ones, know of her. A special thanks to those of you who have been helping me through the past few days. I'm working on a few things for my grandma, and I may be sharing them here in the future.

Here is a story I wrote recently, I hope you all enjoy it.

Flowers

It was decided. She would cook the last piece of bologna she had on the stove and be done with it. The thin meat crackled, popping like gunshots through the trenches of San Mercliz. She mindlessly fingered her last chunk of the bread she pilfered from Marty’s. She would eat now, that was what mattered, tomorrow was another story entirely. She sat on her cot while she watched her frugal feast slowly brown. She must have looked like a joke, she thought, crammed in her miniscule flat, barely enough room for her, the cot, and the stove. She again felt the familiar shame and embarrassment that plagued what was left of her life. She straightened her back, pushing the bottom of her tattered negligee between her thighs. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders, its beauty a stark contrast to her emaciating frame. She picked the meat out of the pan and made quick work of the last of her food. Her eyes flicked from her meal to Robert’s watch. She had only a few minutes left. She cleaned up as best as she could; tying back her hair and brushing her cheeks with an old comb in the mirror, giving them the illusion of color. She fell back into her modest bed and waited. Ever punctual, her eight o’clock entered. He glanced at her carelessly, with vague interest, like a boy recognizing an old forgotten plaything. Without a word, he dropped a handful of coins on the stove and then his trousers on the floor. His hands grabbed her; they were cold, hungry, and unfeeling. He reeked of bourbon and tobacco, the stench radiating from his body in a warm, sick cloud. She let her mind travel. As always, she thought of her Robert. His rough, calloused hands and just how impossibly gentle they felt when up against her skin. His sad, blue eyes, seeing and craving ever inch of her. He was her grate love, her “one and only”, as he always whispered to her while holding her body against his in their beautiful mahogany bed. She was so impossibly lucky…and she knew it. Mr. Bourbon breath was finished and gone, but her fantasy wasn’t. She fell asleep, tired and used, holding onto his ghost.

She was panicked, how could she have miscounted? With last night’s take she should have had exactly enough. Her eyes welled up with tears as she recounted her money again and again as she approached Mary’s Store. Checking the pocket of the roustabout wrapped around her, she moaned a great sigh of relief. The last two quarters were wedged in its pocket. She was breathing much easier when she entered the shop. She perused the aisles like a duchess, clutching her fortune tightly to her breast. Her eyes danced across the loaves of beautiful bread and the fresh cuts of meat hanging over the deli window. She pictured great feasts at parties full of many well dressed guests. She brushed the tips of her fingers along the beautiful fabrics displayed on the shelf in front of her, imagining dresses, curtains, and bedspreads. She dreamt of fine linen sheets and the most beautiful brassieres money could buy. Finally she stopped and reached for the best bouquet. It wasn’t perfect in the least. These roses were barely relatives of the beautiful ones she knew they sold in New York City by the dozen, but they did their best intimidation. As she pushed every last piece of money over the counter to a boy of only 16 or 17, her stomach moaned a protest, but its bootless cries were not heeded by its owner.

She did not cry, she remained stoic as she walked the rows of identical markers. She found Robert’s easily and slipped to her knees before his earthly resting place. She brushed the fallen leaves off of his façade and smiled at him. He had bought her roses. With his meager military pay, he had somehow managed to save enough to buy her the most beautiful bouquet of roses in the middle of Time square to boot. It was the first and last time she ever saw the city, she never had any need to go back. How she remembered those perfect flowers! She had clutched them tight in her hand as He kissed her goodbye. . His smile, so big and hopeful, as his boat left the harbor. He had given her roses when he had nothing to his name, and now, for the fifth year since God had taken him from her, she would return his great kindness. She laid down next to her Robert, resting her hand on his stone and the other on his flowers, listening for his voice and yearning for her past.