On Thursday, Dean grabbed a shovel from the garage. It was of the old reliable breed, with a strong wooden handle and a sharp metal spade. He slung it over his right shoulder and trudged out into the woods behind the bunker’s main door.
He walked for a long while, not really knowing where he was going until he saw the small clearing. The trees seemed to part for him and he looked up as the sun shone down: a sign, surely, from Jack.
It took him two days to clear the plot. He dug away the weeds, tore at the grass with his bare hands, moved a few logs back into the tree line. Once the greenery was gone, he set to turning the soil, digging down deep and chopping at the ground to remove any roots. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d watched enough HGTV on the road to know that this was how you did things. You had to start fresh, with clean earth.
It seemed strange to him that he was digging with no intention of finding a coffin below, and even startled once or twice when his shovel hit a large rock, thinking it was bone.
On Monday, he dug fifteen holes in three separate rows, keeping them as even as he could. When he was satisfied with the placement, he carted out five flat beds filled with flowers. He planted sunflowers and indigo, impatiens and marigolds, all under the advice of the woman at the garden center the next town over. She had helped him find the most beautiful blooms and most importantly, the ones that would attract bees.
With dirt under his nails and an aching back, Dean sat down on the nearest log and watched as a honey bee fluttered by to inspect the offering. It danced over orange petals and pink buds, finally settling on the darkened brown center of the tallest sunflower. It stayed there a while, doing whatever it is that bees do, and Dean felt a pang in his chest so profound that he thought his heart might be giving out.
He took a breath and looked up into the late afternoon sun as tears began prickling behind his eyes.
On Thursday, Dean grabbed a shovel from the garage. It was of the old reliable breed, with a strong wooden handle and a sharp metal spade. He slung it over his right shoulder and trudged out into the woods behind the bunker’s main door.
He walked for a long while, not really knowing where he was going until he saw the small clearing. The trees seemed to part for him and he looked up as the sun shone down: a sign, surely, from Jack.
It took him two days to clear the plot. He dug away the weeds, tore at the grass with his bare hands, moved a few logs back into the tree line. Once the greenery was gone, he set to turning the soil, digging down deep and chopping at the ground to remove any roots. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he’d watched enough HGTV on the road to know that this was how you did things. You had to start fresh, with clean earth.
It seemed strange to him that he was digging with no intention of finding a coffin below, and even startled once or twice when his shovel hit a large rock, thinking it was bone.
On Monday, he dug fifteen holes in three separate rows, keeping them as even as he could. When he was satisfied with the placement, he carted out five flat beds filled with flowers. He planted sunflowers and indigo, impatiens and marigolds, all under the advice of the woman at the garden center the next town over. She had helped him find the most beautiful blooms and most importantly, the ones that would attract bees.
With dirt under his nails and an aching back, Dean sat down on the nearest log and watched as a honey bee fluttered by to inspect the offering. It danced over orange petals and pink buds, finally settling on the darkened brown center of the tallest sunflower. It stayed there a while, doing whatever it is that bees do, and Dean felt a pang in his chest so profound that he thought his heart might be giving out.
He took a breath and looked up into the late afternoon sun as tears began prickling behind his eyes.
