families, every family is a little strange

families, every family is a little strange

republished, written before

three graves

fiction
edward w pritchard

The scraping woke me. I was in aunt Sheila's bed overlooking the fishponds and water garden and had been sleeping deeply. I was dreaming that my ex-husband Raymond had small white bugs crawling in his ears.

Awake I was anxious. Afraid, reason unknown. The bed was old and the blankets freshly musty and the smell reminded me of childhood. When you slept in aunt Sheila's bed you sank deep toward the floor and you were warm and you slept soundly.

I had went to bed wearing one of the old robes in the closet. The robe smelled faintly of brandy. Last night I had sat up very late with my son's new girlfriend getting to know her for she was going to marry him and my Grand daughter would live with her from now on in Aunt Sheila's house that my son had just inherited. As we talked I sipped at the brandy in the Alabama style, like aunt Sheila used to do when she talked to guests when I visited Mobile when I was a girl.

Someone was working in the gardens near the fish pond. The scraping continued.

The swinging doors from the bedroom were half open and the smell of the flowers and fish pond filled the small bedroom. My Grand daughter Geli was carefully measuring the three grave stones with a wood ruler and the Oriental woman, my new daughter in law was lifting the heavy blocks of stone aligning them so they would be in a straight line. I stood and watched them for a few minutes from the doorway to the garden. The dynamic between them was strained and my grand daughter six, followed her instructions like one would a teacher at grade school.

My son spoke from the West bedroom
"What are you two muffins doing out there?"

I returned to Aunt Sheila's old bed and slept till noon.