Ashes

Under the Oak

I have always loved the rain. The way it just happens out of nowhere. Right now though? I couldn't hate it more. The droplets haven't stopped for days, tumbling down the window of my cramped bedroom, constantly reminding us of it's presence by pattering on the roof. I wish the fact that it doesn't seem to want to stop is the reason I hate it. It isn't. My Dad's funeral is today. For weeks on end I've been sauntering around the house in my ladybird pyjamas, feeling depressed to the point where my family doesn't want to speak to me, and now with my headphones tucked securely in my ears I am trying to forget anything ever happened. For the sake of my Mum and brother I have been faking smiles and watching a weekly episode of X-Factor with them on our coach, but inside I feel terrible. I think they know it, but don't say anything in case it reminds me of my Dad. He was amazing. Not one of those parents that cared whether you completed homework or did chores. He was just my Dad. A big kid technically, someone I could always rely on for a decent horror film or Chinese food from our favourite place. All that's gone now. I'm not saying my Mum isn't the best Mum in the world, she is. She's not my Dad though.
"Mon!"
I hadn't realised anyone was speaking to me over the roar of a terrible rock band.
"Jeez, how load were they?!" my brother questions, coming to join me on my bed. I shrug as if I couldn't care less whether or not I went deaf within a year's worth of screaming music.
"What do you want George?" I complain, taking out my earphones and switching off my phone. I turn to face him, eyebrow raised in a question. To be honest, I just don't care anymore.
"Mum wants to know if you're gonna change any time soon, I mean, you only have an hour..." he says, looking at his black ice watch. I mean, if you're going to get an ice watch at the very least get an interesting colour.
"Yeah whatever, just give me some alone time..." I force the words out, not really knowing what I was going to say in the first place. I rest my head against the dashboard and sigh as George leaves, gently shutting the door behind him. I've been dreading this I'll admit. I don't want to go to this funeral and get pity from a bunch of people I've never spoke to. I want to celebrate my Dad's life, which was pretty short actually. I swing my legs and stand up, stretching out my arms before making my way to the wardrobe. I'm not a fussy dresser, but I feel like today I should put some effort in. I pick out my prettiest dress which is black of course. Imagine showing up to a funeral in a neon colour. I smile at the thought despite what's going on. I strip quickly and pull the dress over my head, smoothing out the creases. I shake out my hair and decide to leave it down. My Dad always preferred it that way. I look at myself in the mirror briefly and decide that it'll do. I'm going to want a cardigan later, but hey, who gives a crap? I take a breath and prepare myself for the chaos downstairs.
***
"What the hell is happening?" I exclaim to George, who looks as confused as me.
"Not sure, but I've never been more scared in my life." I nod in agreement. My auntie, who is mad by the way, appears to be having a bath in my sink. My mum is making pancakes. I edge closer to Mum, never taking my eyes off the fully clothed women splashing herself like a three year old.
"What is she doing?" I hiss under my breath. My Mum looks up and meets my gaze with a genuine smile.
"Oh sweetie, ignore Auntie Octavia, Your Father's death hit her pretty hard, and besides it's raining anyway" she shrugs, turning back to the frying pan. I walk back to George not entirely happy with Mum's response. Okay, Dad's death hit me hard too, but you don't see me bathing in the sink.
"I don't even want to know" George tells me and walks into the living room without another word. I'm left alone with a crazy women and a terrible chef. This is no man's land. I start to back away, but my Aunty turns her neck to look at me.
"Oh, Monica darling, would you like a pretzel?" she cries happily. I know for a fact that Octavia is not carrying any pretzel's with her.
"No, I'm fine" I say too quickly, grinning a very fake grin. She sulks.
"Oh, I really thought you'd say yes" she mopes.
"No really I'm fine" I beam and run into the living room after my brother who abandoned me just thirty seconds ago. I scowl at him and he laughs at me, throwing a grape into the air and catching it like an expert in his mouth. My Mum had this weird thing where she keeps a different fruit bowl in each room. Apparently it helps to support a healthy lifestyle. I draw the line at my bedroom though.
"You..."
"Pancakes!" my Mum shouts merrily as if this isn't a day of grief. George winks at me and dodges me, before making his way back into the kitchen. Today is going to be the worst day I think.
***
I realise now that no matter how many pancakes my Mum makes and no matter how many times I see Aunt Octavia in a sink, I may never smile in the same way again. Maybe the occasional smirk or slight grin, but nothing more. It makes me sad. I have to admit, it's a weird thought to have whilst smothering your Mothers burnt pancakes in syrup that sticks to my fork like glue. But still, that's not pleasant to daydream about. George is tucking in, trying desperately hard not to get syrup on his suit, but I already see crumbs on his shoulders and I know what's coming.
"Can everyone just give me a moment?" I ask. George looks at me confused, his mouth full to the brink with food, but my Mum and my Aunt ignore me. They appear to me immersed in a Daily Mail newspaper. I leave.
***
Despite the never ending rain, after a minute of hunting down my coat and gloves I find myself outside. In the rain. I'm not doing anything in particular, just staring. Staring at my Dad's oak tree. He planted it three years before I was born and since then it has grown into a beautiful tree with green leaves and rough bark. In the down pour though it doesn't look as pretty. I've also sort of ruined the appearance of it. This is going to sound so strange, but ever since the accident, every day I hang one of my Dad's belongings to the branches. A key chain, his wedding ring, the locket I gave him for his 40th. All sorts of things. I like to think that he knows I do it for him. Today I hang up his coat. Of course it'll be wet through and will eventually break the branch, but I'm running out of things to hang up. As I tie it securely I find my fingers going numb. Gloves don't do much. I nod and look at his belongings dangling Under his Oak.