I agree, but I’m all too happy when the subject turns to songs she learned as a child and she belts out, “In 1814 we took a little trip, along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip.” I push a swag of moss aside with my shovel and join in the choir, our voices rising up past the high branches.
“That was fun. Your voice is almost as good as mine.”
“Thank you, Mom.” That wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it. Not only do I have a better understanding of her, but I feel a deeper connection with her, too.
We stop in front of the four graves in the corner, the Sutton outcasts, all of whom are women. I’m fairly certain there are some Sutton men buried around here who deserve a plot in this corner of the cemetery, if for nothing else than for the numerous paintings of their horses and dogs I’ve found in the attic.
I drop the bucket and shovel in front of a white marble vault with a life-size weeping angel on top.
Lillian Elizabeth Sutton Jackson
Born into This World 1921
Beautiful Daughter, Wife
Beloved Mother, Grandmother
Taken Too Soon
Too soon? She was almost ninety.
She points to the ground and sighs. “This needs to be cleaned up.”
“Grandmother’s last name was Cooper for over forty years. A lot longer than Jackson.”
“We can’t have Stepdaddy’s name on Momma’s tomb. It wouldn’t be right.” She grabs the wreath from my elbow and places it on the angel’s foot. “Lily married a Jackson, then a Gaudet; one wore an army uniform, the other a green beret.”
What? “Pawpaw Bob was a Green Beret?”
“No, but he made gator gumbo.”
That logic hurts my head, so I reach for the shovel and attempt to remove a clump of grass. Grandmother’s vault is one of the showiest in the cemetery, let alone in this corner of sinners. Grandmother was never brash or loud and probably would have been a little embarrassed by the over-the-top angel. I understand why Mother wanted her to have one, though.
“I want to be buried here.” She points to the locked door of the vault. “With Momma.”
Even though I’d rather talk about anything but Mom’s burial, it’s part of the reason she insisted we come here. I put my boot heel into the effort and shovel a clump. “Do you want me to add another weeping angel?”
“No.”
Surprising.
“I want my angel gazing up, with her wings wide like she’s flying.…” There she is. A frown wrinkles her brows, and she points to the sky. We’ve probably been away from the house for an hour, and I’m sure she’s getting tired and needs lunch and medication.
“Do you want to go back?”
“Why?”
Because sweat is collecting beneath the wire in my bra and the bayou smells swampy back here. My feet feel gross and the trees are buzzing with cicadas.
“I want my angel to look like she’s flying to heaven.”
I move to a different patch of weeds and dig in with the shovel. “Anything else?”
“Yes, she has to have really long hair like me.”
The patch is determined to win, but I dig the shovel deep and jump on it with both boots. I grunt a little and ask, “You want to be remembered as an angel?”
“No one will believe that,” she scoffs.