White Funerals, Red Roses
White Funerals, Red Roses.
My grandmother was a tiny woman with big brown eyes and the softest creamiest tan skin. Red was her favorite color, it made her so happy, but she never wore it.
My grandfather forebade her to. He said. Red. Is for Whores.
He ruled his family as a crumbling patriarchy fueled by his alcoholism and insecurities.
I remember his funeral. The bowels of January, a cold blustery morning in a rural cemetery, the boughs black, the ground stiff. A small gathering, the wind in our faces.
Desolation. My grandmother faltered,went limp, lost her balance, and appeared as if she was about to pitch herself onto his coffin as it was being lowered into the ice.
Two of my uncles reached to catch her, and brushed against one another, they had not spoken in years such was the power of hate that was my grandfather's legacy.
Fisticuffs broke out between them over the grave, for a few minutes utter irish flavored havoc. I stared in horror, my collar turned up against my face.
My grandfather forebade her to. He said. Red. Is for Whores.
He ruled his family as a crumbling patriarchy fueled by his alcoholism and insecurities.
I remember his funeral. The bowels of January, a cold blustery morning in a rural cemetery, the boughs black, the ground stiff. A small gathering, the wind in our faces.
Desolation. My grandmother faltered,went limp, lost her balance, and appeared as if she was about to pitch herself onto his coffin as it was being lowered into the ice.
Two of my uncles reached to catch her, and brushed against one another, they had not spoken in years such was the power of hate that was my grandfather's legacy.
Fisticuffs broke out between them over the grave, for a few minutes utter irish flavored havoc. I stared in horror, my collar turned up against my face.
Her vision is fading but I still send her red flowers. They match her beautiful 94 year old brown eyes.
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