It had been exactly one year since I’d seen him last, my brother. I stared into the bright blue sky and spoke to hi m about all that had happened in the last year. I told him about sis and her new husband, about mom’s new job and about the troubles in my marriage. Not once did he interrupt me as I rambled on and on. He never interrupts.
After an hour or so of talking, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and said, “I miss you so much lil bro. I fear I am truly lost without you.” All that I received in response was the soft mumbling of the wind sweeping through the headstones.
I gently set down the bouquet of flowers on the small mound of dirt that is my brother’s home, next to a few sporadic yellow daises that littered the ground.
Every year I, and only I, came to see him, and every year (except for the first) there were always a few lone daisies on hi’s mound before I arrived. I knew the rest of my family never came here, and none of his old friends knew he was buried here. After the first appearance of the daises I’d figured that it must have been Mark who came and seemingly thrust those ugly things on his grave.
I hate that man, as does my whole family, but, unlike them I don’t take it out on my little brother. It’s not his fault what Mark did to him. But my family can’t see past what he was. I guess that to them, Mark, my brother, and his disease were all the same thing. And they hated him for that.
As I walked back to my car, I decided that I’d call Mark and ask him about the flowers. As much as I hate the man, it would be nice to know if it were him putting the daises on the grave.
After I’d clambered into the small, clunky car, I checked my cell phone and listened to my messages. The first was from my mother asking me if I knew where Dad had gone off to. The second was from my wife reminding me about the lawyer meeting this evening, and the third f, again from my wife, but just a huff of air.
I ended the call and sighed. What’s happened to my life?
Pulling myself together, I called Information and asked to be connected to Mark Holburn of
“Hello?” a man’s voice answered.
“Hi, is this Mark Holburn? I asked.
“No, nope. I’m sorry buy my son isn’t here. He’s in upstate
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I said. I hung up.
As I started the car, realization dawned on me. Even from
My phone rang. I answered it.
“Where the HELL are you?” my wife shouted. “The meeting with the lawyers starts in five minutes!”
I signaled and turned into traffic, arguing with her until I got to the courthouse.
I forgot about the daisy escapade soon thereafter, and didn’t pursue it any further.
A little less than a year later, I was back living with my parents. At dinner one night, I told them that I was going to visit my brother this Saturday.
“You don’t have a-. Oh,” my mother said.
“You’d be better off forgetting about that one.” My father said.
“Honestly, I don’t understand why you feel the need to go visit him every year. I sure haven’t.”
“He was my brother, Mother. Your son. Just because of what happened before he dies doesn’t change the fact that I loved hi as a brother should”
“Anyone who turned out like that doesn’t deserve our love,” mother replied.
Angered, I slammed my fork down and left the table. I got in my car and drove to the florist. I needed to get the order in before this weekend if I wanted a decent bouquet for him. I chose calililies with roses. As I left the store, I remembered the daisies. Whoever put them there must still feel something for my brother. I decided that I would leave early on Saturday and hide to see if I could discover who the mystery person was.
Saturday morning came and I left the house as soon as the florist opened at 7am. As I made my way through the semi-wooded graveyard, I saw a figure standing by Brother’s grave. I could tell it was a man, but from the far distance, I could not decipher much else.
His back was turned to me as I silently approached. I made no sound as I crept closer. About fifteen feet away I stopped dead in my tracks.
The wind whistled as it rounded trees and graves. I saw stunned silent.
Slowly, the man dropped his handful of daises on the ground.
“I was wondering when you’d get here.”
“D-Dad?” I said, almost intelligibly.
He did not move. I walked slowly up to his right side and looked at the man’s face to make sure it was my father.
It was streaked with tears.
“I come here every year,” he said. “The first year after he died I followed you here and saw you sit down and talk to him,” he paused. “After you had left, I came over, and tried to say something. I always try to say something,” he sobbed, trying to keep it in, “but I never can. So, I grabbed a few flowers, some stupid daises I guess, from around the graveyard and threw them on his grave in disgust.”
My eyes flared, my cheeks flustered. What was he playing at? He comes here to see his son, then leaves in disgust?
“Not disgust in him, but in myself.” He drooped his head lower. “How do you do it?” he asked, not looking at me. “How can you talk to him for so long?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I just say what comes to mind. I just, talk with him. I know he doesn’t care what I say, he just listens.”
He sniffled. “Could you,” he began, “could you help me. You know, talk with him?”
I put my arm around him and looked towards the sky. It was a beautiful and cloudless day.
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