The peach roses, melting on my canvas from the sun, weren’t meant for my father’s eyes. My mother had passed away earlier that month and the flowers that I now painted, in the garden, had been her favorite. Sometimes when I fell asleep, I could still hear humming and the sound of metal against dirt. It’s only in my dreams. But I think my dad can hear it too.
The other day I was washing dishes and I heard something peculiar‒really peculiar‒and I, knowing all too well that ghosts couldn’t be real, I heard, “Sweetie, why aren’t you pruning my roses.” My mother’s voice rang through the air like a wind chime, but it was all metal, there was no lyrical sweetness to be found. The house grew cold, and my father sleepily called from upstairs, “Go help your mother.” I stood still. A reflection passed by the window, and the sun shone through the glass.
There were two glasses in the silver sink, one was larger than the other and the smaller glass was placed inside the larger; it shattered when she chimed‒like my father’s heart when he found the knife‒and I stood startled still.