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Inspired by the song “Mary of Silence” by Mazzy Star.

The sun’s rays beat down on the frail old woman as she toiled in the soil of her garden. Her wide-brimmed hat did its best to protect her, but the high heat left her covered in running sweat as her gloved hands continued their work. She took a moment from her doings to admire how far her various plants had grown and even let loose a moderate smile as she spoke: “You are growing big and strong so you can make your ingestors big and strong.” Her smile then turned into a small chuckle at her perceived play on words, which entertained her inner funny bone. She used her less dominant hand to grab hold of her small handheld gardening tool and began to prune away some of the dying vegetation that was withering at her plants’ outer regions. After finishing, she grabbed the half-filled watering can and began pouring an adequate amount on her newly freshened work. She then collected her tools, stood upright, blew an air kiss to her garden, and made her way back to her home.

With each step her mind shuffled betwixt many of the memories she had accrued over the years. Long-ago moments of her life spilled across her thoughts like little snippets of her time here. As she entered through the screen door she placed her basket of gardening utensils on the kitchen counter and removed her gloves and summer hat in a methodical way as her mind wandered through her past experiences in this place. She made her way to the main sink to wash the embedded soil from her hands as she grabbed the soap from the corner of the sink. As she dried her hands on the towel that hung from the handle of the stove, her mind recalled the time her middle child came home covered in tell-tale scratches, a hungry opossum hung in her arms, pleading to be able to keep it as a pet. She just shook her head in disbelief as she bent down to recover a plate from the lower cabinet beside the stove, her thoughts shifting to a heated argument with her long-past Harold about why it was more logical to keep the supper plates in the lower cabinets so that the children would be able to reach them when needed. “When a child is ready to eat they have to be able to reach,” she whispered as she began to make herself an isolated plate of food that had been cooked on the very stove Harold had bought her as a surprise tenth-anniversary gift with his winnings from one of his late-night poker games. Her open hand slid over her belly as she reflected on how pregnant she was at the time and how it was only two months later that she gave birth to her middle minion blessing.

She grabbed hold of her full plate and shuffled toward the table that lay inches from the center of the kitchen, recalling how Harold’s efforts were so strained by the fact that he could never quite get all the table legs even, which infuriated him to no end. He stayed frustrated with it until she took one of the coasters from the living room, folded it just right, and placed it under one of the wobbly ends, which evened the table out. She pulled out one of the four cornered chairs and sat down in the same chair she had sat in when she read the letter that her youngest child—who was so headstrong and angry about what the Japanese had done to Pearl Harbor—chose to enlist in the army after lying about his age so he could fight, only to be lost in battle on one of the front lines. She never really noticed, but her preferred seat was the same one she sat in to read his letters that he faithfully sent each week until the final bereavement letter she received from the president’s office.

She said a blessing over her meal and then proceeded to grab her fork. Filling it, she quickly took her first bite as she stared at the empty chair directly across from her, which bled into the memory of her oldest offspring sitting in that very seat with a face full of tears, exclaiming how she wasn’t ready to be a mother and that her chosen paramour was a dirty biker she had met and fallen in love with at some Woodstock concert. At the time her words were gentle and reassuring, but her thoughts were screaming, “You done gone and fucked up badly,” though she would never outwardly say such a thing to her firstborn. She could faintly hear Harold losing his shit in the backyard. She looked to the small window that sat above the sink between bites of food as her thoughts shifted to her memory of that fateful day when Harold was just outside of it chopping firewood, and all the ruckus and noise he made doing so fell silent. She could even recall how she told herself at the time that “he must be getting ready to come in for another beer,” but it was the last time she would ever see him alive again. Her eyes began to swell with tears as the memory of all the people who came to pay their respects to a man that she felt only she knew returned.

She took several more bites of her meal to finish it, then took her used plate to the sink and laid it at the bottom of the basin. She shuffled her way to the living area of her home as the joyous minstrels of memories that were hers of her grandchildren sprang forth into her thoughts. A smile filled her lips as she recalled how they looked so much like her own offspring, sans their skin tone, and she loved how they carried the same energy their parent had. She paused for a moment, standing in the doorway, and just stood as though trying to stay inside of this thought and reflection as a gentle breeze swept through from the open front window. Her thoughts shifted to the holidays, especially Christmas, when Harold would dress as Santa Claus and fill their children with so much joy and happiness. After her melodic pause she made her way upstairs and began her night ritual, which hadn’t changed in sixty-three years.

Making her way into the upstairs bathroom, she gazed at herself in the mirror and said, “Time to make the magic work, so make it hurt,” as she began her nighttime routine. The night had fallen upon her home as she finished applying her various creams and solutions. After completing her nighttime regimens she stripped down to her full-bodied nakedness, took in a deep inhale, and said, “Tonight is the night.” She retrieved her sleeping clothes from the shower rod on which they hung and covered her newfound nakedness. Taking one more glance in the mirror as she exited the bathroom, she recalled the voices of her little ones giggling so profusely as their toddler brother came wandering out of that very bathroom covered in misplaced makeup and jewelry, shouting, “Look at me, Mommy. I’m pretty like you.” Though at the moment she was filled with rage at the waste of her expensive lady paints, she couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him as he waddled his way toward her in his miscoordinated way. She just chuckled outright again as she reached for the light switch and fully exited the bathroom. Her laughter spilled into the upstairs hallway as she made her way to her master bedroom.

Quickly the flash of her Harold bent over a partially put-together bed frame invaded her mind as she paused, like that very day, and whispered, “Honey, if you can’t figure it out then we can sleep on the floor. I don’t care so long as I sleep next to you—it will all be fine.” She stood there staring as she fell in love with that smile that spread across his face as he said, “My queen must have the proper bedding to get her proper sleep so she can have the dreams of the angels,” and then he went to work assembling that very slumber chamber. She entered the room and retrieved her hairbrush from the nightstand beside her side of the bed and began brushing her hair as she counted her strokes with the brush. After she cast her last stroke to her hair she glanced at the last of her nightly plans with the dread of five fallen angels as she whispered, “It’s time to put a period on this life and just finish it.” Dropping the hairbrush, she then picked up the jagged blade that rested on the very same nightstand as she said, “Harold, I’m coming to meet you all over again and we will never be separated.” With that said she grabbed the jagged dagger handle with both hands and struck it through her heart. She let loose a shriek as her body fell back onto her matrimonial bed. As her breath turned into a death rattle, more flashes of her life passed before her, but all she chose to feel was the very comforting embrace of her Harold. Her body fell back onto the bed as an eerie smile clawed across her face as her life escaped from her as quickly as her crimson fluid seeped from her. A single beaded tear ran down her face as her damned soul escaped her body and was claimed by the darkest demons of hell as they feasted on her suicidal soul.

—Juche’