Thursday, March 10, 2016

Minew

We buried her beside the garden, at the end of a row of green beans. It was October and the beans were done, stalks and stems all brown and crispy, knocked over likely in our hurry to harvest the last of them earlier in the season. I'd eaten more than my fair share right off the plant.  Mom was there, holding Minew in a well-worn towel. Tom was there too, and me. Minew had been hit by a car on Tetroe Road, proving to us little ones that, yes, cars were dangerous, even the ones on Tetroe Road.

Mom passed her bundle to Tom, and started in with the shovel. It was a heavy, pointed shovel with a long, straight wooden handle.  Taller than me, and heavy. I wondered how deep the hole would have to be.  We stood, staring down past our rubber boots, watching the shovel pierce the earth as the hole grew.  Tom held Minew close to his chest, as if worried she would jump from his arms and escape.

"Will the beans still grow here next year?"
"Yes."
"Will they taste different?" 
"No."

Thomas glanced over at me, eyes a little watery behind his dark rimmed glasses, then looked back down at Minew in his arms. She looked to me like she was sleeping, only... stiffer, somehow.  Like that fox that was attached to my grandma’s coat – kind of stiff and krinkly, not fluid and sleek.  I remember the fox's nose was bent oddly, and the bead eyes sparked strangely from the fur.  It would have made a neat puppet, only we weren't allowed to play.  It was hard to believe the fox had been alive once; it was nothing like any foxes I had seen. Minew's fur was now matted although she had been so good at keeping it clean; her eyes were closed. I touched a paw and flinched as I felt cold, stiff skin.

I wasn't too attached to Minew; certainly not nearly as much as Tom.  I squirmed too much for her I supposed; she didn't like to come to me at all. It had eventually occurred to me that chasing her, or dreaming up ways to trick her somehow into sitting with me for just one moment just wasn't worth my effort - I always wanted more. Besides, when I was too persistent, she would bite.

When my Grandmother had died, I hadn't wanted to go to her funeral.  It was going to be uncomfortable, I thought, and sad, with people crying and stuff.  Awkward. What if I cried? Paul told me later about the sandwiches and squares that he'd had, and juice. Coffee and tea for grownups.  I did feel then like I’d missed out, but not much.  I didn’t ask him about the crying.

I remember that after she died, our living room got filled up with flowers. Carnations mostly. At first I thought they were beautiful, but then as the room slowly filled with them their scent started to bother me until I couldn’t stand it.  The smell of the carnations still make me think of dead people, of death, and of missing Grandma. All those flowers sacrificed too – all picked to eventually wither, brown and die in the living room. It didn’t seem right.

There was a prayer service before the funeral, and everyone was there.  All of my Dad's brothers, my uncles, had come from out of town; all the adults were busy, talking. I wove through the black pant legs and draped black fabric and saw the coffin up at the front of the room where my Grandma lay. They said it was a chance to say goodbye, but for me she was already gone. Her body was there but my Grandma wasn’t. Like the fox, like the flowers, like Minew. 


Death is a curious thing. I had so many questions, and many unsatisfying answers. My Grandma had died while she was away at California, and had come home in a box on a plane. I wondered about that. I thought at first she would have to stay forever in California, but Dad had said no, she would come home on a plane. I pictured her in a bed on the plane, but was corrected.  Not in a bed, in a box. I don’t know where they put her when she got home. I was wondering if she’d stay for a while in our house but that didn't happen. I don't know where she went.  I do know that after the funeral, she was buried in the cemetery, beside my Grandpa that I'd never met.

“If people go to heaven, and cats go to cat heaven, where do dead flowers and plants go?”

My question hung in the air over us for a second, then my words were caught by the breeze and scattered like the falling leaves – also dead, I realized.  I loved that smell. The smell of leaves returning back to the earth, the smell of snow on the air, of winter and endings and hibernation.

“Just back into the ground.”

The hole wasn’t that big, or deep, but it was enough. At Mom’s gesture, Tom placed Minew carefully in the hole and adjusted the towel over her lovingly. I was more sad for Tom than for Minew.  She was already gone, already in heaven, but he was here with me in the garden, missing her.  He wiped away a tear while Mom covered the hole back in with dirt.  I looked at Tom standing there, arms hanging by his sides empty now, and I reached for his arm to hold.  He looked at me again and smiled briefly, then looked back at the place in the garden that now contained Minew. I wanted to cry too but couldn't; felt guilty instead for not being able to cry for this little creature.

When the pussy willows came out along the garden the next spring, I touched them with my fingers. Cool and soft, certainly not cold. I could feel life in them, could see life in the willow bark, red and warm. I smiled, remembering Minew. Then I thought of my Grandma - I took a breath and closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth of her generous hug in the spring sunshine, hear her sweet whispers in the breeze and I felt in my heart that she was close. Death may mean I won't see her anymore, but it doesn't mean I won't think of her, or hear her voice on a warm spring breeze, when life is bursting out from the death and decay of winter.  Its simply how things work... 

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