Boy

It's raining on that September day. People are overdressed in black, either wearing dresses or ties, wearing frowns or no expressions at all. But finally, the whole clan is there. And as the minister speaks, the family watches as the coffin lid is closed, soon followed by family members carrying it out.

“My mom was always a nervous person, despite her appearance. She was always there for me, always behind the scenes. She even put together my wardrobe. It looks like I'm going to have to fend for myself, huh ma?” the raven boy pauses, waiting for the chuckling to stop, “I wish she could have stayed to watch her children grow up. I hope she's proud of them, today.” And the boy sucks his lips together, trying not to fall apart.

He walks off the stage and into the rain, watching his sister walk past.

“For my eighteen years, my mom's always been there,” He takes his place near his dad, “through the bad times, she was always there, helping me to stand up.” Looking down, he realizes his sister's lack of emotions and he's suddenly upset. “I remember when she tried to teach me how to ride a bike, Adam had to step in because she thought I would be more confident with him.” His lips tremble and his breathing starts shaking. And trying not to cry, he scoffs, noticing that it was too late. He clenches his jaw, upset at his sister's lack of compassion. He tells himself to man up.

At the house, the mom's ashes sit on the fireplace mantel, in a golden jar with a closed lid. Leaning on the wall to the right of them, he stares, not knowing if he's looking at the jar or nothing at all. He's remembering when his mom interrupted an interview only because his hair was sticking up in front. He was so pissed at her back then, but now realizing that she's dead, it makes him want to go back and just blow the whole incident off his shoulders.

“Where do you think we should spread them?”

He shifts to look at his sister standing in the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back, a straight line on her lips. He quickly wipes his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, “I don't know.”

“Well, we have to get rid of them sometime, Adam.” She looks down, realizing her tone of voice. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean that.” Looking down, she tries to even her breath.

Setting his lips in a hard line, Adam turns his head to glare at her. “Sure ya didn't.” He looks away from her. “We don't right now, maybe in a few months when things die down.” He cringes at his choice of words.

She doesn't even look up, probably too ashamed to. She just stares at her shoes.

And when their old relative finds them hiding in that room, Tristan wraps her arms around her chest, feeling the awkward air. “Oh Adam dear, I'm so sorry. I wish I could have spent more time with your mom.” Adam only smiles, slowly nodding his head at his aunt. “And Tristan dear, only eighteen ...”

When the two are left alone once again, they only stare at the floor, trying not to forget mom's face.

“You could have been here, you know?”

Suddenly Adam looks up at his sister, furrowing his brow in agitation. “Excuse me?”

Clearing her throat, she continues, “well, maybe if you weren't off in LA, she would've stopped worrying so much.”

'Are you blaming me for mom's heart-attack?” and suddenly he's angry, clenching his jaw. He stares right at her this time, with some anger and some annoyance.

Widening her eyes, Tristan quickly shook her head, but that doesn't stop Adam from narrowing his eyes and stalking out of the room. Tristan only hugs herself more, trying to forget about it.

A few months later, they spread the ashes in the backyard of their house, in the garden by the back fence.

“This was mom's favorite spot to come and think,” he has to control the urge to cry as he tries to imagine mom sitting on the stone bench a few feet from them.

Smiling, Tristan glances at the flowers. "Looks like me and Dad will have to look after this now."

Adam frowns, clearly missing something. "What ya mean? I'll be here," and of course, it suddenly clicks as to what she means.

His sister look's down, shuffling the dirt with her shoes. “Oh, well I just thought you were going back to LA,” once she glances up and sees that look, she looks down again. “Well, I mean with your singing career and all ...”

“Oh.”

And both just stare ahead.

“So, where at kids?”

They look at the blonde man coming up behind them, his face still plagued with that sullen look. “Do you want to do it dad?” Adam lifts his eyebrows, glancing as his dad moves from one foot to another, apparently uncomfortable with the whole situation.

The man pauses, taking a few minutes look at the garden around him, probably remembering mom's dirty hands after picking weeds or planting roses. “Sure.”

Adam takes a step back, handing him the golden jar. Eber hesitates when his son hands him the jar, it's as if it's forbidden to handle the object that contains his wife's ashes.

The two kids go back to standing over the morning glories, watching as the dead flowers blow in the November wind.

“This was Leila's favorite flower. She spent hours in this garden,” the man pauses to clear his throat. “She loved to sing while gardening, even though she wasn't that good.” The three chuckle, remembering mom's grin when they peeked out the window in Summer.

“Yeah, she was a good mom.” Adam puts his lips in a thin line, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

Tristan closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, “she always had the answers.” Her voice still shakes.

Adam snorts, rolling his baby blues, “Even though she was too busy cleaning most of the time to notice you.”

“Your mother sure had a temper when she cleaned.”

The three of them stare at the dead morning glories, trying to picture her down on her knees, pulling at the stubborn weeds, cursing silently.

And when Eber unscrews the lid, they watch as the ashes fall to the soil in their mom's garden.