Plastic Flowers

We kicked the ball back and forth some more and ended up at the cemetery.

Winky Wheaton is the only person in the world who knows I sometimes go to the cemetery and talk to Mom. For one thing, it’s private and personal, and only a best friend can be trusted with private and personal things. For another thing, I do something that might be slightly illegal, when I’m there. When I see old plastic flowers on some grave that nobody’s visited for a long time, I take the ones that are still good, even though they were meant for some other dead person, and I rearrange them and put them on Mom’s grave. In terms of grave robbing, it doesn’t seem that bad.

So we did that. I shook out the pinchers and ants and slimy water and bunched the plastic flowers, mostly yellow, into a bouquet. I put the bouquet on Mom’s grave.

“Fresh as a daisy,” Winky said. He picked up the soccer ball and put it under his arm, out of respect, like a hat.

“We’re having a little bit of money trouble, Mom,” I said toward the gravestone, “but there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got it under control. I’m taking care of it.”

“Do you ever hear anything back?” Winky whispered.

“No,” I said. “Not so far.” But I am ever-hopeful, just like those plastic flowers are ever-blooming.