Every October 6th, Gran places a wreath of flowers at the foot of the tree that killed her children. On the evening of the 5th, she has the white lilies and red roses delivered to her. The closest florist is twenty kilometers away. She used to phone them; now she asks Jules to order the flowers online. He just has to click on “Delivery bereavement flowers,” and choose between “funeral bouquet, casket spray, or condolence arrangement.”
Every October 6th, she leaves the house at eight in the morning, flowers under arm and stick in hand. She limps along for about three-quarters of an hour to reach the tree, places her wreath, wraps a ribbon which she gets specially embroidered around it, and then goes back home.
Gramps has never wanted to accompany her, never wanted to drive her to the tree, Gramps has always hated that ritual.
Gran has always refused to let Jules or me accompany her. As children, we had no choice about going to cemetery, but she spared us the wreath of flowers in the ditch. Even if someone pulls up alongside her, offering to take her there, she declines.
Every Saturday of that month, when I’m not on night duty, Jules and I pass the wreath on our way to the Paradise club. For the first couple of weeks, the flowers do their best to look like flowers, but by the end of the month, they’ve lost all their color. In November, the wreath is nothing but a brown heap, which, if you drive by fast, you might take for an animal or clothing thrown into the ditch.
At the first fall of snow, someone removes it. For a long time, we thought it was the road-maintenance man, but when Jules was around fifteen, he discovered, by chance, that it was Gramps.
Last winter, Gramps left it to rot away. By spring, all that remained was the white ribbon on which you could still, just about, read these words: “Forgive me.”