-They don't have tombstones.
-Why not?
-Because we didn't bury them.
-Why not?
-Because they returned to sky and water and earth, in that order.
I watch my mother and my daughter, each wondering in her own quiet way about where this story will go next.
They are rolling Sunday morning biscuits. My daughter is perched on the counter where I sat a thousand times. She's been humming and rolling and swinging her legs, just as I did, but now she's grown still, thinking about the uncles she never knew. I see my mother swallow hard and I know she's pondering what to say.
My daughter looks quizzically at my mother, wrinkles her floury nose. Mom inhales, says Come, and they head out the kitchen door. I don't follow. I know they will go to the garden, where my mother will kneel down and tell a story of one boy who loved the sky and the other who loved the sea and how their ashes were swallowed by both. She will not speak of heaven or God or a pink-marshmallow place where her boys wait for her. She will not sugarcoat the story of their deaths.
I peek out the window and see them huddled together, my mother and my daughter, dwarfed by the two magnolia trees which were planted the year my brothers died. It is March, our saddest month. The trees hang heavy with large buds, ready to open in glorious fragrant bloom.
26
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written for 52|250's tombstone issue
Michelle, I know a top-of-the-charts story when I see one. I predict lots and lots of stars for this one. It gave me the shivers. Fabulous.
Lovely, and loving and so sad, Michelle. Tender writing, here. *
Ah, how great is this? Gorgeous writing and amazing, vidid story. *
Beautifully rendered. I agree with Jack.
Gorgeous Michelle. This came from your heart. Hugs. Peace **
Such a great way to open. Very real, Michelle. Great mix of sadness and possiblity in this. Especially like the closing: "The trees hang heavy with large buds, ready to open..."
Good writing.
A tender story served without sugar coating. And I love that the commemorative trees are magnolias. Fave.
a lovely piece.
wonderful perspective here - you explore the tristesse both from the inside and from the outside. reread this several times.
Great story. Really like the beginning.
This is beautiful. Sad, but not melancholy or gloomy. Very effective voice here and wonderfully written. *
Beautiful vignette.
she will know when those magnolias bloom, life goes on
Thanks for your comments, everyone (Sam and Estelle: thanks for noticing the ending and commenting on it -- I loved what you wrote, Estelle!). This one spilled out, felt right. I appreciate your attention and I'm glad it's not too sappy. I try to avoid that -- very pleased this one works.
How lovely to be back here!
When I read this, I’m reminded of the love of family, a love that just is and always will be. *
A very solid Micro, Michelle. This phrase in paragraph seven, really caught my attention, ". . . thinking about the uncles she never knew." The story was smooth sailing from there on. Several times -- as a reader, I was involved: What happened to the uncles?
Great story, well written with beautiful imagery. Rolling Sunday morning biscuits: a good time for grandmother, mother, and daughter to refelect on the story of the sons/brothers/uncles deaths.
All you need is love.
Thank you, Kari, Ramon, JMC and Alex! I'm glad you see the love in here, not just the sorrow.
ooh, a very powerful, very touching story!*
Lovely. The ending is especially marvelous.
Delicate, true, honest, tragic, yet life-affirming as well... that those gone are not lost so long as they remain alive in memory and in the lives and recollections of those still living, passed down through the generations. The magnolias planted for them, about to bloom. I did so love that it is the grandmother telling her granddaughter about her dead sons.*
as said, the way you do those trees at the end -- heartbreaking.
and how it is balanced, somehow, by the image of rolling biscuits: so good.
Read this story on the challenge and read it again and it moved me all over again
*
A lovely look at mourning, The tree imagery in the end- very nice. A good story is when you always want to listen on. Would love to know the brothers' story...!
Living trees as markers is beautiful, as is this story.
Beautiful, Michelle. Wonderfully-written :)
The first thing I ever read by you, Michelle, was Almost There, also about your brothers. It, like this, is heartbreaking but also a wonderful way to acknowledge and celebrate their lives. And to show how they live on in stories and trees and mothers, sisters and daughters. I have to confess that when I first tried to read Two Trees, I couldn't. My own brother much on my mind lately. But then I read James's The Color of Mangoes and thought I should man up, as they saying goes, and come back here. Glad I did (sorry to be so longwinded).
Michelle, this is simply beautiful. So powerful and sad. You really capture the grieving of this family, the deep sorrow, and also the daily interaction between multiple generations (very realistic). I love the last two lines --- amazing. *
Thank you all so very much. I am touched by your comments. Those magnolias tower over me every time I'm back in my mother's garden.
You managed to achieve tenderness and objectivity at the same time, which is remarkable. You said exactly everything, I think.
sometimes i wish Fictionaut had a supernova Fav button, like now, but then that's too brash an image for a story that's so wonderfully wrought with restraint...all the images, just right, passed on recipes, layers and leavening, seasons and Sunday mornings and things growing again*
thanks, Grey & Doug. Your comments are much appreciated. and I like the idea of the supernova button, Doug -- we can use it on our rowdier faves.
Oh, so tender and moving, very powerful. Thanks. *
Tremendous power presented with elegance and grace- fantastic. I'd fav this twice, if I could.
Beautiful serenity and gravity.