bitter water // dreamnotfound

thirteen

george had always treasured afternoons; when the air was warm from hours of sun rays and the scent of his earthy surroundings sailed throughout the air.

It was ideal for doing what he had been planning for a little while now. It wasn't yet late enough for the bitterness of the polar night to arrive, but not too early in the noontime for the sun to be overwhelming. He had found the perfect middle ground; the goldenest of hours. With the extra tip that his petulant customer had provided him with, he was now able to purchase a little something for his mother's grave. Rosemary.

There was a small florist near Fundy's bakery; the shop owner was only known as Puffy. She had always been so generous to George when he had passed by to get to his friend's bakery, so she instantly came to mind when his brain presented the thought of getting flowers for the grave. He never had enough money to buy flowers regularly. He barely had enough to sustain himself, nevermind weekly foliage. However, this time he could actually afford to.

Rosemary had always been his mother's absolute favorite flower, plant even. George had tried innumerable times to grow his own rosemary behind the house since it uprooted so many pleasant recollections, but each attempt proved to fail. The fragrance always took him right back to when he was a young child, racing around the garden with a handful of it while his mother plucked the rest of it from the gentle earth. She would bundle it into little bouquets, tying it with loose string and hanging it to dry in the hall of the house. The bundles would eventually be turned into soaps or sprinkled into their meals to add flavor.

The scent was eternally his favorite. When she'd hang them to dry in the hall, the aroma always filled that area specifically. He enjoyed it so much that he'd rest in the hall for hours on end just to be encircled by the smell. It felt so familiar to him; it smelled like home.

George was an only child. His mother was only ever able to have him. She considered it a blessing that she even had him at all. He was her little angel, her precious stone. They were closest as could be, the tightest knit mother and son pair that you'd ever see. During the warmer months, they'd gather the rosemary together, racing around the garden and singing songs, most often...

I am not a fool entire

No, I know what is coming

You'll bury me beneath the trees I climbed

When I was a child

The lyrics were etched into his brain after summers of rosemary parcels and playing pretend.

I know I shouldn't love you

Well, I know I shouldn't love you

But I do

However, of course, it wasn't all sunshine. George didn't want to retain the scary parts. His father would yell at him, he'd yell at his mother, he'd yell at them both. His father didn't like the idea of George growing up with wildflowers and poems. He told his mother that she was raising a failure of a son, one who would be an embarrassment. One who would dishonor him. He called him pitiful and that he shouldn't be "acting like a woman." He told him that he should be gathering firewood for dinner and assisting him with work, not scamper off to plant herbs with his mother and sing until the birds flew away.

That was something that George would never overlook, no matter how much he really, really wanted to. He wanted to grow up at his mother's side, chirping songs and potting flowers. He didn't care how girly it was, it made him happy. But his father didn't see it as he did. He'd get yelled at every night, as would his mother.

Now here George was, nineteen years old, on his knees in the dirt at her gravestone. It had nearly been seven years. A neat bundle of budding rosemary was seized in his grip. When she had passed, he didn't have any money to afford a proper burial. He was only almost twelve in his defense. His father had little concern in accommodating. He had fully left soon after, leaving him with an inadequate bit of money so that he wouldn't get in legal trouble.

Because her site of burial wasn't the most glorious, George had planted an oak tree behind the stone. He had first tried rosemary, of course, but he didn't have the green thumb that his mother did. Seven years later, the tree was only about ten feet tall, but it was perfect to George. It comforted him knowing she'd cherish it if she were still around. Years ago, when the tree was still quite small, he used to come up and sit beneath it, books aplenty in his arms. He'd read for hours. Sometimes out loud, wondering if his mother was listening. Sometimes he'd hum to her gravestone.

I feel it in my soul

I feel the empty hole

The cup that can't be filled

Those lyrics were most applicable to his situation now. He really yearned for her presence. He knew those words probably had so many different meanings to so many different people who had heard the song, but to him, it suddenly seemed as if it couldn't possibly be about anything else.

One day, the land was purchased. The new owner was well aware there were burials on it. He agreed to not disturb them, but he didn't want people constantly lingering on his land. He had to chase George out a few times, questioning why the boy was so teary-eyed and persistent. Nowadays, George only stopped by for a few minutes at a time, fearful that he may get in trouble. He thought it was quite unfair, but he couldn't risk it in his current state.

George weakly smiled, delicately placing the bundle of herbs onto the dirt. "I hope you're doing well up there. I've been struggling a little. Sometimes I wish I could skip through all of this life stuff and come up with you right now, but I know you probably can't smell rosemary anymore, so I'll stay just for you."

His words were the slightest bit unsteady.

Before he could proceed, a pair of kids disrupted him. One had a stick in his hand, the other arm carrying a fairly large lifeless animal of some sort. The other was seemingly unwillingly trailing behind, carrying with both arms a creature just like the first. George rolled his eyes, figuring they were just children looking to cause some disorder. He didn't want to be associated with them when they were inevitably caught, so he quickly said goodbye to his mother and hurried off back home before cloudy darkness dimmed the sky.