WHERE THE FLOWERS ARE
All the days are dark now.
September 1st
The storms are getting worse. They’ll come in some days like nightmares, tearing and biting at the sides of the skyscrapers, turning the whole city black. And the smell—god, the smell you can’t stop no matter how well you board up the windows. Even on sunny days, the dogs are scared to go outside.
Ruth is well. The school on the hill is still standing, by some miracle. She starts 3rd grade tomorrow. She’s excited. She gave me her stuffed elephant this morning because she says third graders are big and they don’t need stuffed animals. I saw her take it back from my room last night when she went to bed.
Tomas and I are holding up. His job closed down 3 weeks ago—manufacturing plant got hit by one of the storms—but they’re paying us severance for the next 6 months. At home, I take care of the dogs and make lunches for Ruth. She says she likes them. I’m not so sure.
It is getting cold quicker than usual this year.
I know you ran out of paper a long time ago. I just hope you are getting these. We’ll be in touch.
Love,
Marcela & Tomas & little Ruth
She folds the letter neat and puts it back in the envelope.
“Later, Marta!” calls the postman as he makes his way down the dry desert road. There’s no pavement out here and it’ll be hours before he makes it to the next cottage. She prays for his safety.
The sky is quiet today, and mostly blue. It’s a pallid blue, but that’s the best you can hope for these days. Marta walks inside and files the letter in the drawer with all the others. There are still a few hours of daylight left. She rummages around in the garage, finds the watering can. The faucet handle is not so easy to turn today, and Marta grimaces a little as it creaks and groans. At least the water is still there. It flows like the waterfalls at the lakes back down South, back when they had lakes and you could go whenever you liked. Those summers were a long time ago.
Outside, the wind is making Lily dance. She looks healthy today. It is far past flowering season, but her leaves are still green and beautiful. Marta carefully tips the watering can. The first few drops fall onto the ground and evaporate in an instant. Marta winces. A few seconds later Lily is full. She smiles up at Marta.
Marta straightens herself, with some pain, and looks out at the horizon. She cannot see The City. It’s hidden by the black-and-purple clouds that have made themselves at home lately. She closes her eyes for a moment, then walks around to the back of the house. Martin and Angela are there, waiting for her. He is a rhododendron, she is a cactus. He gets most of the water. They both look healthy, despite everything.
10 P.M. It is dark. Marta can hear cracks of purple thunder on the plains, out towards The City. She clicks off the tiny bedside lamp. And she sleeps.
September 8th
An icy wind tears through the desert valley. The postman walks by, burlap sack sagging from the weight.
“Marta!” he calls. She’s already waiting on the porch. He tosses her the letter. “Big day today,” he says, “lots of letters.” There’s some pep in his voice. He walks down the dusty road, past Marta’s house and towards the next cottage.
Marta listens to the pat-pat-pat of his feet until she can no longer hear them over the desert wind.
The window upstairs is broken, and the rain falls through the cracks almost daily now. It happened during the last storm—we didn’t even hear the glass shatter over the thunder. The dogs went up there afterwards. Jake got a big shard of glass in his foot. There was blood everywhere. The vet’s booked out until December, so I put some bandages on his foot and am hoping for the best. He limps around a lot these days. I don’t know if I’m doing this right.
They closed Ruth’s school on the hill. The whole top of it is blown off, and most of the building collapsed in on itself, like russian dolls. They’ve got all the kids going to the portable school houses now—you know the ones? They tell us it’s safe.
Tomas and I are OK. We haven’t received one of the severance checks since the last time I wrote. But the mail is slow these days. Everything is slow these days. Talk soon, mom. I hope everything is good out there in the desert. Say hello to the plants for me.
Love,
Everyone
The faucet is not so easy today. At first, nothing comes out. Then, a slow stream of water trickles from the faucet and, eventually, fills the bucket. Marta looks closely at the water. It has a purple hue. She squints at it and walks outside, winces as she goes down the steps. Damn hips are giving her more trouble than ever these days.
She walks out towards Lily and gasps.
The watering can crashes towards the ground and breaks into pieces. The water floods the ground and the desert drinks it all up. But it does not matter. Now on her knees, Marta looks over at Lily. Her green leaves are now brown, and they droop.
Lily is dead.
Marta does not sleep well.
October 3rd
Marta is sitting out on the porch. It has begun to snow—or something like it, as this snow is purple—but she does not mind.
Pat-pat-pat. The postman has returned.
There is no burlap sack over his shoulder today. Just one letter, dirty and creased, in his hand. He looks weary. She prays for him.
“For you,” he says with a tired breath. He tosses the letter towards Marta. But it hardly makes it over the fence. She wants to ask why there is only one letter today, why he’s so tired. But she already knows the answer.
Today, the postman does not continue down the desert road. He turns around and starts back towards The City. She watches him go as he disappears, step after step, into the purple haze on the horizon.
The storms have not stopped for a week. It is only during a quiet moment, of which there are not many, that I am able to write this.
But there is not much to write. The dogs are gone. Ruth is gone. We have not received one of Tomas’ checks in more than a month. We can see a big storm on the horizon. They say to close up our windows. But we don’t have any left. Love,
Marcela & Tomas
She crumples the letter into a ball and throws it out over the porch. The desert wind makes it dance for a few seconds before carrying it far off into the dust at the bottom of the mountains. She wonders what it is like in The City now. She tries her best to stop wondering.
The wind picks up and blankets the house. Marta cannot see her front yard now, much less the far horizon. Everything is cold and a bruised purple.
The faucet makes a sick sound when she tries it today, like it’s crying. She stands there for a moment, wondering. Martin and Angela out back will only have a few more days left. She wonders if it will matter anyway—she feels the pain in her hips and her back bubbling, and she feels as though there is a sticky lump in her throat that will not go away.
Tonight, Marta hardly sleeps at all.
October 31st
The plants are dead. There is no water. The postman has not come in weeks. And there are no more letters. There is no more purple snow—a black sludge is raining down from the sky now; it puddles and oozes around the edges of the house. It is drowning what’s left of Lily out front. Marta cannot bear to check the back.
All the days are dark now.
December 1st
It is clear on the last day. But Marta cannot see The City—the horizon looks like a garbage heap. She wonders if it looked like this before they built The City. The sludge outside is almost up to the porch now. It smells like dead things.
Marta looks out past her porch, straining her eyes. Lily is still there, dead but holding on: She is almost underneath now, her leaves gray and drooping into the black ooze. The desert wind pushes Lily into the sludge, and she drowns.
Marta looks away, everything blurry. And she closes her eyes for the last time.