I have a confession to make...

... I lied.
And I can't keep it a secret, because, you see, I lied to my mom, and my parents, God bless'em, read my blog, so as soon as I post it, the cat is out of the bag.
Mom, who lives in Florida this time of the year, had a small request. She asked me to bring a wreath to my grandparents' grave before Christmas. Being mom, she gave me plenty of notice, and offered gentle reminders whenever we talked.
But you know how it is, right? Things kept coming up.
So the last time we talked, and she asked if I had a chance to do it yet, I... I... well... that's when I lied. In florid detail, I'm afraid. I'm sorry...
Though vile and reprehensible in itself, the act of lying ensured that the task would be done. After all, I couldn't let the lie stand. I had to make the lie false. I would now go and do my duty, and the lie would be eradicated. So what if I made the statement 48 hours before I committed the act. That's NOT lying; that's just looking ahead!
So, I went. Yesterday. Armed with a wreath, a stand, several zip ties, a very thin coat, more like a sweater really, dainty leather gloves, and a clear visual memory of the location of the headstone. It was 17 degrees in Chicago yesterday, with gusts of wind powerful enough to make my minivan dance on the road, and for snow to fall sideways. St. Adalbert's cemetery is an open field many acres wide, sparsely punctuated by stone monuments and now mostly bare trees. The lack of foliage and other greenery, the dense twirling fog of laser-sharp snow flakes, and the ominous howling of the wind made my clear visual memory fade somewhat.
I parked by the water spigot, and gingerly got out of the car with my wreath and other supplies. I headed in the direction of the little tree. There was supposed to be a little tree, you see.
When I arrived at the probable location of the headstone, I discovered to my dismay, that the sunken headstones were caked with a layer of decomposing leaves, now frozen solid, which made identification of the headstones impossible. But their headstone shouldn't be sunken, I thought. Grandma died three decades earlier, but her husband was buried with her only two years ago, and a new headstone was laid. I ducked my head into the wind, as I circled the field in widening spirals, my eyes pointing down, my stiff fingers holding onto the wreath for dear life.
I found myself scanning the ground a good distance from my car, where grave could not possibly have been. I also realized that the wreath was acting like a poorly managed sail, whipping about my thighs, and either impeding my progress, or making it disconcertingly fast. I wanted to yell: MOM!!! Where is the bleeping grave?! But of course I couldn't. Not after I had lied.
So I went to the car to regroup. With the heater on full blast, I stopped shivering after a few minutes, and decided to venture out again. This time I left the wreath behind, and brought a window scraper instead. Someone must have taken pity on me, because in a flash of lucidity, I recalled that my mom said she placed a wreath there in the fall, and remnants of it might still be visible. Why not start my search with graves that had older looking wreaths? I hit pay dirt on the third try. Eagerly scraping the dead leaves away, I slowly uncovered my grandparents' names.

I sat on the frozen ground, holding my coat tight around me, and I cried. Cried from sheer exhaustion and cold, and cried for the memory of my grandparents. The grandparents whom I barely knew. My grandmother, because she emigrated to the US when I was  scarcely old enough to remember, and who died without my ever having seen her again. My grandfather, because he lived out his 28 years without her in a small room tending tomato seedlings, and saying little. A painfully shy, striking old man with pale blue eyes and snow-white hair, who loved gardening, but would never admit to it.   
Tears frozen to my cheeks, I went to retrieve the wreath. I needed something practical and concrete to do to ease the tension of the moment. As I pushed the metal stand into the frozen ground, I realized that those tears were also from relief, that my punishment had not been so great that I would have to admit my sin to my mom.

Comments

[Heather]

Oh boy, do I feel your guilt! I just went through a lying to my Mom thing too. My parents winter in Texas and my Dad has medication that needs to be picked up from time to time at their doctor's office here in town and mailed to them in Tx. This is suppose to be my sister's responsibility. I was only half listening to my Mother the other day on the phone (because she started rambling about many things apparently of no interest to me) when I realized she asked me a question, which was did I inform my sister of the need to p/u the medicine. Knowing full well I had not because I spaced it off, I said, "Yes, yes I did." Oh boy, this then required me to send a quick text message to my sister letting her know I had lied to Mom and that she needed to cover for me and take the burden of not picking up the medicine on herself and that she just forgot. Thankfully, my sister and I stick up for one another and it all worked out ok, but the guilt & covering up about kills ya!