At No Time || Bruno Mars

48

It was a cloudy day in New York, not abnormal for the late summer, but the gloominess nonetheless added to the daunting approach of the graveyard.

Rainwater dripped off tree leaves, wetting the path that Peter and Diane stepped along, a bouquet of white carnations in her hands and dark pink roses in his.

Neither said anything as they neared the entrance of Maple Grove Cemetery, the eeriness it sustained only quelled by the fresh flowers placed at grave stones.

They quickly made their way passed a distant funeral, keeping their eyes from the casket being lowered into the ground. It was enough being there on such a dreary day; they did not like remembering what it felt like having to let their own mother be covered in mounds of Earth, never to receive a hug, kiss, or encouraging word in their lifetime.

They trekked the through the damp grass, their shoes sliding against the dew as they made the familiar mark toward their mother's burial ground.

It sat there like a centerpiece, still, gravitating. Until recently, Peter had gone years without seeing it, cooped up in the safety of Los Angeles where he would not have to be reminded of the haunting memories the stone left. Diane on the other hand, visited every year, whether on the anniversary of June's death or not, to make sure new flowers were placed, a prayer was said, and the head still glowed with the love and energy June had left.

It had been hard for Peter to see it that dastardly night Trystan had found him in Central Park. Not only had he secluded himself in the freezing hell there, he had trudged through the snow in only sneakers to see where June had been laid to rest. At the sight of the gravestone, he had crumpled to the ground, the wind snatching up his sobs as he begged his mother to forgive him; for not being there, for not visiting, for trying to erase her from his heart because the memories of her were too difficult to bear. Had it not been for Trystan's reassuring that night, he would have likely stayed in the park, catching a cold or even hypothermia, but he had not cared. He deserved it for abandoning his home and life he once knew.

Now, he stood beside his sister, having placed their bouquets properly and standing upright to look down at the headstone, his conscious cleared but his heart aching nonetheless.

Hear lies the body, but not the beautiful soul, of

Rosamie "June" Mendoza Hernandez

June 18, 1951 ~ January 5, 2000

Mother, Daughter, Sister, and Wife

Kung may tinanim, may aanihin.

(If you plant, you harvest.)

Peter remembered being a teenager in his bedroom, overhearing his father telling someone on the phone that he did not know how he could afford a headstone, let alone a waking service. He thought it treacherous of the universe not to allow his mother a proper burial; she had done nothing but love and give all her life.

He moved away from the door and dove beneath his bed where he obscured his shoe box, full of cash from all the odd jobs he had done up until then. He pulled his wealth out of its hiding place, and when he counted all the bills, ransacked his room for any misplaced coins and even broken an old piggy bank to spot some chump change, he found he had only acquired two hundred thirty-seven dollars and thirty-eight cents.

He knew it would not be enough, but he presented it to his father and would not take it back even when Joel refused it.

"She was my mother," Peter had insisted, pushing the money back into his father's hands. "I wanna help out. If you don't take it, I'll use all of it for flowers or something."