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Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Violet

Plumbago

She watches her mother from the corner of her eye, follows her movements from under half-closed lids. If she can keep her in sight, she will keep hold of her. The reality of her mother moving around the house– folding, carrying, pulling, shifting, muttering– reassures her. She clings on to the sound of her, the feel of her steps vibrating through the wooden floor.

She has her own share of the work– more than her share. After all, she is the eldest, and at sixteen almost a woman. ‘Something of a se?orita,' her father had joked.

Now there are no jokes, just the serious business of packing up a house.

‘Roll them– don't fold them– you will get more in.'

‘Call your brothers, they need to be ready when the cart comes.'

The days of playing are over– and she must roll and fold and pack alongside her mother. Whenever possible, she tries to work near her. It is all part of keeping hold of her, making sure she doesn't leave them.

She doesn't worry about losing her four brothers, even though they can scatter like marbles over stone and be as difficult to locate. Eventually she knows they will roll back.

Nor does she have to worry about her sister. She is a new addition to their family, one who arrived just as their father fell ill. A light in the darkness. She toddles around at a surprising speed on the tips of her toes. Her sister follows her around the small house, just as she follows her mother.

She lets her sister follow her to say goodbye. Together, they gather a bunch of wildflowers, and she ties them with an old yellow ribbon that once adorned a straw hat. She holds her sister's small hand as they walk up the hill and carries her when she gets too tired. She doesn't want to be with her mother now; she thinks her mother's sadness could overwhelm them and wash them all away.

Loss has changed her, too, but she cannot put her finger on exactly how. When she tries to imagine her finger finding the spot and pressing it, like when her mother asks her to place a finger to tie a ribbon, she fears she would not be able to bear the pain of it. So she focuses on the flowers she holds in her hand.

They take their bunch of flowers and place it on a grave by the wall. The plot is marked by a trailing blue plumbago that their mother planted, the petals tiny and delicate. She hopes the plumbago will grow and flower, getting stronger each year. Maybe it will send out tendrils and wrap its arms around the two stones next to it. Graves where no one ever leaves flowers.

She knows her father will forgive them for leaving. He understood when he grew sick after the operation that there was little chance of them keeping the house. The farm had gone a few years earlier when he could not afford to keep the flock. Now there is nothing left to sell.

Her mother had talked about the Lord providing and said she knew it would work out. But she thinks nobody, not even the priest, believed her. Her father knew they would need the help of family, and their family are an ocean away.

So now they are piling everything they own into a cart and are starting on the journey. All they will leave behind in Argentina is a grave on a hillside planted with plumbago.

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