FIFTY-NINE

The last car left the cemetery about forty-five minutes after they lowered Molly’s casket into the grave. Elizabeth wanted to stay. The cemetery workers loaded all the metal folding chairs except for the two that Elizabeth and I occupied.

The funeral director nodded, squeezed Elizabeth on the shoulder, shook my hand, crunched a breath mint between molars, and left. Elizabeth and I watched the backhoe operator scrape dirt into the open grave. When he finished, another worker used a shovel to smooth the mound of dark earth. Within minutes they had loaded their equipment and were driving down a long, winding road. I watched them drive away, the truck and trailer kicking up dust, hazing the horizon with its setting sun and purple sky backdrop.

A soft breeze blew across the cemetery, ringing wind chimes that hung from a gray and weathered headstone adorned with faded plastic red roses. The air smelled of damp earth, moss and orange blossoms. Mimosa seeds floated through the trees and across the open spaces as if tiny parachutes were landing in the graveyard at dusk. I looked at Elizabeth staring at her daughter’s grave. She said nothing, her thoughts masked, and eyes swollen and filled with a pain, her expression as lifeless as the cemetery. She held a yellow violet plant in her lap.

Slowly, she stood and walked to Molly’s grave. I followed her. A hawk called out in the distance, its cries mixing with the groan of a long-haul diesel far away. A soft breeze caressed the music from the wind chimes. “The violet was Molly’s favorite flower.” She turned to me. “Do you know why?”

I looked at the potted flower in her hand. It was rooted in a small cup with dark soil around the base. “Are butterflies attracted to violets?”

“Yes,” she said, kneeling down by the freshly turned earth atop the grave. Elizabeth used her hands to scoop out some soil. She lifted the violet from the pot and planted it near Molly’s headstone.

I heard her gently weeping, using her palms to smooth the soil around the base of the flower, tears falling onto the freshly toiled dirt. She stood and watched the small flower toss in the breeze. “The florist told me it would bloom into more flowers. Maybe they’ll attract the honeybees and butterflies. Maybe on the long and lonely days, they’ll come around and visit with Molly.” She choked, eyes filling. “Sean, I can’t believe my baby… my little girl is lying under that dirt. Dear God… why?”

Elizabeth buried her face against my shirt, her tears warm, breath hot and quick. Her hands clenched into small fists. I simply held her. There was nothing I could say to ease her pain. I could only be there, hold her as she wept, crying at the horror, the loss and the inexplicable questions that no one could answer. She looked up at me, and I used my thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks. We turned and walked to the car. The breeze kicked up a notch, and the sun churned buttery clouds in shades of gold and lavender.

I ignored the phone vibrating in my pocket.

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