Free Scattered Petals by Amanda Cabot Page A

Grandmama was buried deep in the ground. That was why Mama went to the cemetery each night.
    Papa had been gone that particular evening, probably calling on one of his patients, and Patience had been ill, so only Priscilla and Mama made the pilgrimage to Grandmama’s grave. As she did each evening, Mama cut a flower from her garden to place on the grave. The flowers, she explained to Priscilla and her sister, were a sign of her love for Grandmama. Always in the past, Mama had carried the flower, but that night she entrusted a rose to Priscilla, warning her to hold it carefully, lest the thorns prick her fingers.
    Inordinately proud of the responsibility she’d been given, Priscilla fairly pranced to the cemetery. Afterwards, she could not recall exactly what had happened, why she had tripped and why she had gripped the blossom. All she knew was that she’d destroyed the rose, for the petals had tumbled off the stem, scattering on the ground.
    “Oh, Mama, I’m sorry.” As tears streamed down her cheeks, Priscilla knelt on the ground, gathering the petals, hoping against hope that she could put them back on the stem. “I didn’t mean to hurt Grandmama’s flower,” she cried.
    Gently Mama led Priscilla to a bench and drew her onto her lap. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Everything has its time to die, even flowers. We’ll lay a few petals on Grandmama’s grave, but I want you to carry the rest of them home.”
    “Why, Mama?”
    “You’ll see.” When they returned home, Mama pulled a glass bowl out of the china cabinet. Opening Priscilla’s hand, she brushed the petals into the bowl, then handed it to Priscilla. “You can keep this in your room. Don’t worry when the petals change color. That’s what happens when flowers dry. But even though they won’t always look the way they do today, they’ll still have a nice scent.”
    Mama wrapped her arms around Priscilla as she said, “I know you miss Grandmama. We all do, but it was her time to leave us, just as it was this flower’s time to lose its petals.” When thoughts of Grandmama’s death brought a fresh spate of tears, Mama turned Priscilla so they were facing each other. Cupping Priscilla’s chin in her hand, she waited until Priscilla met her gaze before she said, “Grandmama wouldn’t want you to cry. She would want you to remember how much she loved you.” Mama touched the bowl of petals. “These are your reminder. Whenever you smell them, I want you to remember how beautiful the flower once was and to know that nothing is completely gone so long as we have memories.”
    Even after the roses had lost their scent completely and had been replaced with other flowers, Priscilla had kept a bowl of potpourri in her room. Occasionally she would stir it with her finger to release the fragrance, and each time, she’d think of her grandmother, remembering the stories she’d told Patience and Priscilla and how Grandmama had never been too tired to play games with them. As Mama had predicted, the memories had brought comfort.
    The wind stirred the oak leaves, breaking Priscilla’s reverie. She shivered, but this time the shiver was accompanied by a small smile. It had not been by chance that she’d walked this way. She had been led. Priscilla raised her face to the stars and smiled again. Thank you, Lord, for showing me that I have not lost everything. I still have memories.
    Feeling more invigorated than she had since she’d arrived at the Bar C, Priscilla walked briskly toward the house, then, changing her mind, she turned toward the paddock. Though the horses might be inside the barn, there was a chance that some remained outdoors. If they did, perhaps one or two would be curious enough to approach her. While her sister had taken great pleasure from gardening, Priscilla had preferred riding and had sought any excuse to accompany her father on those days when he rode rather than took the carriage on his medical rounds.
    She