Flowers for the Dead

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This is an opening, written probably half a year ago. The style is inspired by Ursula K. LeGuin's short story, "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas", with reference to Dylan Thomas' poem, "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night".

Flowers for the Dead
I have given all my flowers to the living; I have kept none for myself.

Nobody celebrates the dead in this town. We have no mausoleums, no tombs, no grave markers. No spirits nor ghosts either. This is a town for the living. The dead have all left us.

And why should it be otherwise? There are still towns where the dead are treated as if they were alive; there are towns where the dead are treated better. It's abnormal, unnatural. We celebrate life in this town, and those who are living. We gather together at the death of a loved one, but not for the death of a loved one; for the living ones, the loving ones, who have lost the object of their love. We help them to love again.

We do not apologize for this. The closest thing we have to a funeral rite shows what we believe. When an old one comes into their final days, and they usually can tell, a young one is sent out to gather flowers for them, a dozen or so--remembrance of a long-gone tradition. But instead of placing them to wilt at the foot of a stone, where the dead buried six feet under cannot admire their beauty, they are given to the old one while still alive. Then, over the course of their last days, the old one gives them back. Some to family members, as they come to visit and say their goodbyes. Some to other old friends, who may keep them for their own bouquets not too long after. And some to children who will come and gather them from any old one they meet. The last flower, traditionally, goes to the young one who picked it, who has stayed to care for the old one to the end. When the last flower is given, the old one breathes out, and says, "I have given all my flowers to the living; I have kept none for myself." Often they pass on soon after that.

It is a good tradition. Parents explain to their children that it shows the passing on of life from one generation to the next; parents assure their children that they will have their own flowers to give one day. And so life goes on. When I was twelve, I was selected as a young one, to go out and pick a dozen flowers for an old one who knew for sure she was in her last days. I was going to take care of her, and, when the time came, I would take her last flower and treasure it.

But this old one did not want to give up her flowers. She did not want to pass on. She had lived a long and full life, but she would not welcome death when it came. Death clung to her like a wrap, sagging her muscles and cracking her joints, and still she persisted. She didn't trust any doctors, wouldn't let them ease her way; "grease my way is what they wanta do," she would say. She had been well-loved in good health, but eventually even her family was embarrassed to come and see her like this. The little children gave up asking for her flowers; one even tried to steal one from her, but she hissed him away. "Little brat! Go pick one of the other corpses dry!" Eventually, everyone left Libby alone.

But I had to care for her, the young one for the old one. I had to be there to change her sheets, to feed her, to scrub that rotting smell off her. I was never sure which of us hated it more. She would tug at my golden hair and snear as if at some private joke. I would scrub at her harder to make her stop. Most old ones pass on in two weeks or so. Libby and I were together for three months. Sometimes I thought I was the one who was dying, and she was just along to make it worse. Eventually, inevitably, she did pass on, clutching her dying bouquet to her chest. That was many years ago. I promised myself after that I would never think about the bouquet, or her, or any of it ever again. But times change, even when youth's promises don't. And now, as I lay here with my own bouquet, as little children with wide eyes come hopping up with hands open, I find myself thinking about her often. Libby and her temper. Libby and her poem. Libby and her bouquet. And I wonder, looking at the young one beside me, which of us had it better? When I dream, and I don't let the young one dream with me, I dream of memories.

***

I've written a number of continuations off of this opening, but none of them have thus far fit. I inevitably take the story too far away from its focus, that being Libby and her condition. Alice, the unnamed narrator above, exerts a stronger pull than I had anticipated, and I need to find a balance between her narrative and Libby's.

I don't usually submit unfinished stories to review, but I felt this one had been sitting dormant for too long, and perhaps could benefit from an audience even in its current state.

[Coldman9]

Not a bad beginning, very good actually. I look forward to the rest of your story.

[khfreak17]

i really like it. i hope you write more and continue it