Family Values

“It should have snow drops growing underneath it,” my mother called after us, as we hunted the park for our Grandparent’s tree. My mum, brother and I were with my aunty, my Dad’s sister.

My father had passed away a few months before and we had made the trip to bury his ashes under the tree. My aunty had been up since 7am drinking white wine. My dad’s side of the family had been heavy drinkers, which explained why three quarters of them were to be buried under a memorial tree together. I did feel sorry for my aunty. She was the only one left of their small family, and she was the youngest and most emotional.

“There it is!” my brother yelled, and we ran over to it like we were children again.

“Oh look, the snowdrops survived!” said Mum. She was pleased. It was she who had planted the oak tree and the snowdrops nearly ten years before. We agreed that the two small snowdrops growing under the tree were representations of my grandparent’s children, my aunty and my dad.

Mum rooted through her bag and pulled out a small trowel, some grass seed and a box containing the ashes. She dug a hole at the base of the tree and stirred the ashes into the earth. I watched her as she put her lover into the earth, so he could go on living and grow into something new.

I photographed the small oak tree and then bent down to capture the snowdrops. Their modest flower heads bowed respectfully towards the earth. Their tiny white petals were almost too pure for the occasion. My aunty staggered around the tree, lurching in unexpected directions, and offering us a tribute sip of whiskey she’d brought in a hip flask.

“Careful,” I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, “You’ll step on the snow drops.”

She looked down at her misplaced feet and with great effort and concentration, managed to take a step back. I watched her Converse shoes carefully out of the corner of my eye. She’d massively exaggerated the drama about that day, embellishing each ounce of pain we all felt. She had craved the outlets it would give her. A reason to talk, cry and drink, a reason to be miserable.

I could hear her slurring words to herself as she hovered above me. She relished those deep and meaningful conversations about love and family that made the rest of us squirm. Her body lurched forward again and her feet, quickly trying to accommodate her, crushed one of the snowdrops.