Young Writers Society

Prologue

Note: All inner thoughts are italicized in the real document, but not here, due to the fact that I have little time to take care of such small details.

I resented the smell of fresh meat, sliced up, packaged and stinking of blood. It was no surprise to me that as I pushed open the door to the deli, the jingling bells installed above my head caused my already irritated mood to worsen. Despite their softness, the bells were always a nuisance, sending a false message about the cold and damp atmosphere of the interior. I found myself inside, cringing when the bells jingled as the door closed, and stared into the complete darkness, cringing once again the nauseating smell rushed at me and filled my nose and mouth.

Seconds passed as I stood at the door, growing accustomed once again to the setting. “If only other jobs paid as well as this.”

Raking my hand through my hair, I dropped my backpack next to the counter and flipped the light switch, letting the fluorescent lighting light up the deli. My eyes flickered to the floor as the light flooded my vision, not quite ready for the brightness of the modern installments. Soon, though, the irritation gave way to the thought of the store opening at seven–the owner of the deli, a man I did not care to meet, then had to pay for only an hour or two of cheap lighting per day, which in the end meant I got more cash.

I opened the cash register with one of four keys dangling from my jeans pocket and unconsciously reached for the phone. My fingers dialed a number I knew by heart far too well. I set the phone on my shoulder, tuning out the ringing as I gathered my thoughts and what I planned to say.

“Good morning, this is Eva,” my sister said with a fake air of excitement. She never spoke with such a tone unless under a lot of stress, meaning that she was already working.

“Hey, it’s me.”

My chest tightened at the sound of a frustrated sigh escaping from Eva’s lips. She knew why I was calling. “I know, I know. I didn’t call last night,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying as hard as I can to get things finished down here.”

I rolled my eyes and was happy for the support of the counter as I leaned back. “Come on, Eva. Not even a ring?”

“You really don’t expect me to call every day, do you?”

From the corner of my eye I noticed a customer approaching the deli. It was one of those grandmothers who were just desperate to buy the best and freshest meat every morning. As if last night’s meat will be any better this morning, I thought.

“You promised.” My voice was rising.

“I know, I know. I said I was sorry. Come on.” She muffled a comment to someone in her world and then put the phone back to her ear. “Please, can you stop being so immature?”

My jaw dropped open. I plastered a smile on my face as the old woman looked at me through the window, watching me with suspicious eyes. “Immature? You know what, Eva? I think you were just too damn lazy to call me up.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure if Eva was asking for me to explain what I was talking about, or if she just hadn’t heard.

“You heard me right.” I stared at the wall, my gaze following the many types of meat that were packed across the entire back wall of the deli. Even though I was aware that Eva was under a lot of stress, I decided I would go for it. “I think you were just being too damn lazy.”

I set the phone back into its cradle–cutting her off–just as the old woman walked through the door, carrying a large woven basket over her arm. I pushed my pack under the counter with my foot and approached her, my plastered smile not diminishing from my face. “How can I help you?”

***

Oh, how beautiful the geraniums were! I smiled openly at the woman selling the flowers and nodded at them, signifying that they would be my purchase. The money that I slipped from my pocket was just enough to pay for them, thankfully, and I grinned even wider as the woman handed me the bouquet in bright tissue paper and matching ribbons, which she had curled with the edge of a scissors. In gratitude, she gave me her thanks, and I reassured her that if she was still selling geraniums in the future, I would definitely be by to purchase more. But not today. Today was the third day of the week, the day that one purchase of flowers, geraniums specifically, was all that I needed.

I jumped on the local bus as it headed out of the city, driving along one of the few worn roads that headed out into the countryside. I looked back and studied the tall buildings, a tired smile appearing on my face. No one would be able to see the pain that I felt out here, where no one walked anymore, the pain that my father claimed was reflected in my eyes ad infinitum these days.

Settling into my seat, with the flowers on my knees and held straight in a protective manner, I gazed out the window and allowed myself to be pulled into the story that was told by Mother Nature: by the trees, which had long ago bloomed and were wonderfully green, the boulders that reached up into the sky and cast momentary shadows on the roads by the small but beautiful pebbles that had once been covered by ocean waters.

I was the only person left on the bus when we reached the end of the road, almost forty minutes out of the city. I stepped out into the sun and was surprised to feel cool air blowing around as a result of the rain that had passed by earlier. I tightened my rain jacket around my shoulders. The flowers hung upside down from my hand, barely above the ground, as I walked up the trail, my eyes catching every detail of the forestry. When I reached the crest of the hill, I paused–and admired the sight before me.

Beautiful stone structures in a variety of sizes and shapes covered the next kilometer or two, stretching out far into the distance, so far that my eye could barely catch the spot where the graveyard met the horizon. My gaze caught the boxed candles that stood on almost every single grave, the small flickers of light dancing in remarkable unity. Large piles of fresh flowers created also a sense of unity, loyalty and love that could not be described by words. They covered the graves of those recently taken from the world.

I bit my lip, tightening my grasp on the flowers, and headed out onto the lot. The grave I was looking for was still covered in a large pile of flowers, but they had dried in the hot sun after lying there for the last month. Or had it been two? I didn’t want to remember as I cleared the ugliest and most dreadful flowers from the grave and deposited them in a large garbage can down the trail.

Upon return, I set the geraniums down on the freshly cleaned grave and seated myself on the bench reserved for the visitors. I thought of nothing more, other than my grandmother, as I began to cry. The sobs that escaped my mouth tugged at my heart, the back of my eyes, and they wouldn’t stop flowing as the sobs raked through my body. My grandmother had been the one woman I had loved completely, indefinably, and with her gone, my world was slowly falling apart. The least I could do was visit her here.

The red geraniums had been her favorite.