So I went back to the cemetery. No, first I went to the florist; it was near Mother’s Day and I wanted to get yellow flowers for my grandmother’s and mother’s graves: yellow, because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen, yellow, because it was my mother’s favorite color, yellow, because I guess it was spring, and I don’t know…things were yellow to me. When I got to the florist I was struck by these little white flowers and I had to buy three of these white-flowered plants: one for my grandmother’s grave, one for my mother’s grave, and one for Maria’s paternal grandmother’s grave…all the grandmothers who would not be at my daughter’s wedding. Now they had their corsages. But my daughter…she wouldn’t even be at her wedding…and my stomach started ripping away from my heart again.

But I went to her grave to check the puffy pink geranium I had just planted. A guy calls my name: “Mrs….?” I say, yes, and he gets out of his truck. He introduces himself as the head of…superintendent there…in charge of…I don’t remember his name or his title…he was just some freak in a jeep. He tells me that he got my letter: a scathing, scolding one, I might add, because the maintenance people threw out a heart wreath I made for my daughter’s grave: all florals: a picture of her that she gave me when she was little, a big butter silk yellow bow on it, and pink butterfly wind chimes from a dear friend.

He tells me this is a non-planting area. No artificial flowers, and no planting of any kind because they have to cut the grass; only plants that are in containers, not dug, so they can be moved to cut the grass. I want to cry. he reason she couldn’t have a headstone in a planting area is because she’s in a single plot with no husband or children to follow. He tells me he was going to call me this morning because I put my phone number on the scathing letter. He only says, letter, not scathing; he doesn’t know what that means either. I listen politely. I want all his children to be dead. He tells me all the little petunias I just planted will be dug up with the geranium: only plants in containers that can be moved. He tells me they threw nothing away. I can go down to the office and get the wreath. I ask how to get there. He explains, but I’m not listening. I’ll figure it out.

So I go down there…to the office…and there’s a pile of stuff that was removed from the purpose of mourning, but the heart wreath is there and intact. I take it…the heart wreath with the florals, with the picture she gave me when she was little, with the butter silk bow, and the pink wind chimes with the butterfly, and I place it in the back of my car, and once again, I take her home. We go home. I place the wreath in my own garden where no one will ever touch her…I mean…it…ever again.

I get a green plastic pot (one that will be allowed by the cemetery) and I go back to her grave, and it’s so muddy and drizzling still. I go down on my knees…on my knees…on my knees. I dig up the puffy pink geranium, and all the little pink petunias…in my paper-thin long black raincoat covering my pajamas (I didn’t get dressed this morning…only went to the store for half and half for my coffee because I forgot to pick it up last night when I was out) and I dig the geranium out and place it in the green plastic pot I brought and place it where I was told to. I dig up the little pink flowers before the caretakers do. I’ll take them home as well. I start replacing the mud, start cleaning up the mess I made: this wasn’t her mess this time, it was my mess; and I clean up the mess, and my raincoat is moving as I move, and my elbows rub against it as I move…and I hear the swish…the swishing of moving and pulling, stretching, lifting…the air is moving, but I only hear the swish; it’s the rhythm of my own swish…in my raincoat…on my knees…at the cemetery…wondering just how deep one would have to dig to find my heart again.