I’m lying down in one of those sunshiny spots. This is the only place and time they start to appear, where the sun manages to peek through the blinds my mom insist on keeping down all the time. The light warms my skin, makes it feel alive, and the prickling feeling that has been gathering on my arms vanishes.
Of course, I know it will appear again soon.
A soft knock on my door. My mom comes in.
“It’s that day again. Time to go.”
This is a routine for us. Each week, we buy chrysanthemums, drive to the cemetery, and set them down on my dad’s grave. My mom will have tears sliding down her face that she would never let me see, and we will both remember. She’ll mumble something that she purposely keeps me from hearing. Then we will take the old chrysanthemums and bury them in our garden. That’s all we have now. A graveyard of wilting flowers to make up for his presence.
Now we’ll go through the motions all over again.
But today, I bre