| It was, it was explained to me, a holiday to enter spring while honoring the dead and so its celebration was a picnic in a cemetery. Flowers and fruit and fish cooked as her father liked and a kind of pastry that had been her uncle’s nickname. Her aunt was bringing paper iPhones, purses and a little villa just for fun to burn. I passed carts selling them as I walked up the slope behind the city hospital. A child climbed a parked car shouting that he was a horse. I took a picture and the colors on screen looked richer, less treacherous. Downhill a stadium surrounded by white trailers. Underwear hung from the clotheslines. I took a picture of myself but I did not appear the person that I was. The picnic would be nearly done. She’d said they’d leave behind chrysanthemums made of cloth to last and scented so they smelled not like chrysanthemums but like a woman. Copyright © 2016 Margaret Ross. Used with permission of the author. |
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