1967

"She loved flowers you know," her father said one day as his daughter scribbled aimlessly at a piece of paper.

Her eyes dart up, intent and focused. "What kinds?"

The young man shakes his head with a smile and reaches behind her ear, pulling the small purple blossom from her tangled hair.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in stupefied joy, "my favorite!"

"I know."

"Might I-"

"Hm?"

She hesitates, the words beginning to wobble awkwardly on the edge of her tongue. She had never seen before, she had never asked too, she had been too small the day of the funeral to remember, to see. 

"Might I take some to her?"

They walked down the cobblestone path he'd so often followed, it greeted him fondly, each pebble and crack guiding him forward, familiar and understanding. The birds sang in humble homage.

"Look Jane." he said softly, leaning down and pointing to the nearby cherry blossom tree.

The little bluebird flew into its nest, four small bare heads peeping after it.

A small gasp arose in Janes throat.

"It's beautiful."

"And it's just for you," Finnegan smiled, his voice a whisper as he gently pressed his calloused hand to her own. "Made for us. To enjoy, to love, to treasure."

His eyes watch only her face. That young, eager face, so intently focused on something so small.

He watched her eyes as her thoughts rose and fell within her mind. As they turned and burned onwards in a fiery fury of wonder and questions, anticipation and dreams. 

As the sun shined the marble graves look iridescent with light, sparkling with purples and greens, a specter of loss. It wasn't like the graveyards she heard the children at school speak of.

They talk of horrid things, people stuck between, unable to touch what they've lost. Unable to escape, afraid and along. It angers her. 

Ghosts aren't real, the dead do not turn to angels she tells them. They only sleep, sleep peacefully and await that longed-for day when he will call. She feels a heaviness here. No grief, yet no understanding, for still, she is young. Simply a weight. A weight on a scale she can not yet comprehend.

Overgrown vines and flowers erupted through the moist dirt. He sat down amongst the concert with a picnic blanket and a basket.

"I brought lunch, thought you might like some," he said as he spread out the blanket.

She nods, her eyes scanning the landscape, taking in every curve and hill. They all rise and fall like her breathing, up and down with the steady heart of the piles of earth and its core below.

He laid down on the blanket, looking at the clouds and picking at the grass with his fingers. He twiddled with the flower he had picked up on the way, gently placing it behind her ear, pinning another into his sweater pocket. 

"I wanted to tell you something, Jane. We've promised to be best fo friends, no secrets and- well I have to admit. Even after all these years...I am sorry I never married again. I know it must be terribly lonely for you without Mother and-"

"I'm not lonely Papa," she frowns.

"Really Jane...your mother was the only one for me, but I wish I could somehow-"

She rests her hand on his, "Papa I'm fine. I have the two best of friends in the world."

Her little face, pale with bliss and hunger shines brightly, "You and Jehovah."

"I see," the young man chuckled, "Well then. If that's quite settled, would you like bread and milk or the berries first?"

Thee sat there perhaps for hours talking to the little stone with no name upon it. Thinking what they ill say first, where they will go. 

The minutes seeming to twist as a merry go round to her, a honey glazed lense of happiness, the tender ignorance of one who cannot know what is missed. For him, the time bleeds backward into long days and restless nights. Still, he smiles for her, he always is sure to smile. 

The purple flower in the child's hand was played with, twisted, smelled and talked to and eventually, was set down beside the stone.

They spoke of the moon, and of the tides. On scientific matters, algebra, literature, and botany.

"She had a lovely garden," he said in wonder. "Everything she touched sprouted and grew tenfold. Daisy apon Daisy and Marigolds, once even watermelons."

"Watermelons?!"

"Yes." He smiled. "But the lawnmower man ran it over. She cried for days."

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

A pause. 

"Might I have a bit of earth?"

His face showed warm openness, tender compassion. "A bit of earth?"

"A garden."

"Well...it will take a bit of time, we'll wait for the growing season. But yes, I think it would do you well to have a project. Maybe we could ask Ms. Jameston for some seeds."

"I'd like that."

Whispers, whispers, whispers, under a golden sun.

One thing long over, another barley begun.

The sun went down, flickering out in a vibrant display of color. He wrapped her shoulders firmly in the blanket and they began the long walk home. The mud forming gently below her bare feet.

He wondered how it was that so fast days turned to years and years to decades. How every flower put beside the grave wilted, just like the girl trapped in the stone, wilting till it vanishes, disappears.

But joy was within his heart. He had done good work with his hands. He had learned to become a teacher, to discern wisely and grow old. His youth was past him, but for his age and experience, he was grateful.

"Oh how much longer will the world lie in the hands of evil?" He lamented. "But his justice must be proved perfect. It must be our choice."

How he longed for Jane every moment they parted. For Jane, and his Anna, and the purple flowers by the brook.

"Once she taught me to water them. To teach them to grow, they follow by example she told me," he laughed to Jane, "She had me stand on one foot like this and sing our song."

He stuck his tongue out to one side and assumed the position of a flamingo in  demonstration.

He added the next to himself in silence. "The day before her medication started. Before we knew the worst was-"

"To sing to the flowers?!" the girl giggled wrinkling her little nose. All 12 freckles jumped up and down on her rosy red cheeks.

"She said that it helped them. Made them feel loved."

"Good singing maybe, bad, maybe not," Jane smiled.

Her Papa faked offense, "Are you saying my voice is anything less than perfection?!"

"No!" she shrieked in laughter as he chased her, the flower falling from his pocket, flying from behind her ear. "No, no please stop."

Once she taught me to water them.

He looked at Jane, ignoring the throbbing pain that racked his skull. He looked over her dainty nose and curly pigtails. How big she had grown. How brave, how happy.

"God give me the strength to see her grown to maturity. To give her the love and guidance she needs."

To teach them to grow.