life in the arctic.

INSTALLMENT 72

[not actually] where flowers come from.
11.20.09

her mother, my aunt, had just passed away;
cancer…the ugliest six letters in the world.
but a four year old knows nothing about
such ugliness, and so we sat on the
living room floor. she coloured, i watched.
halfway finished with a pink elephant, she
set her crayon down and just
looked up at me. “mommy’s dead,” she said.
“i know,” i told her. she sighed.
“she isn’t ever coming back,” she said.
“does it make you sad?” i asked her.
she looked at the floor and started picking
at the carpet. “no,” she said.
“i’m not sad, because, when you die,
you go in the ground, and then the
flowers grow.” she smiled, running her
hands over the carpet as if it were grass.
i wanted to tell her no, that flowers come
from seeds scattered by birds and the wind, or
planted by people in gardens, and that
your skin and bones and hair and fingernails and
even your cancer, it all just turns to dust.
instead i smiled, and she picked up her crayon to
finish her elephant. “mommy’s in heaven now,” she said.
“mhmm,” i said, and she coloured, and i watched.

I used to pray like God was listening. I used to make my parents proud. I was the glue that kept my friends together, now they don't talk and we don't go out. I used to know the name of every person I'd kissed. Now I made this bed and I can't fall asleep in it.

(via christineohhh)