Mr. Bradley's Garden (a short story), Page 3

  Mr. Bradley had always been a fighter. He had gotten his diagnosis a while back. When it was initially sighted, the doctors convinced him all he needed was to get the operation. The operation had been a success, and all of Mr. Bradley’s activities resumed. Everything was back to normal. Or so he thought.

  When his activity level started decreasing rapidly, Mr. Bradley had no choice but to return to the hospital. The very ailment that all believed was originally defeated was back, stronger than ever. Because of his advanced age, it was too risky to get on any type of radiation. His wife agreed. All she wanted was her husband to be at home—to be around those who loved him.

  As the deliveries slowly became nonexistent, the number of visitors and calls dried up as well. Mr. Bradley never expressed it, but Maggie could tell it bothered him. There was a sadness that lingered in his eyes. His moments of laughter dwindled, and soon Maggie couldn’t pinpoint the last time he had exhibited any expressions of joy.

  “Don’t give me my flowers when I am dead. Give them to me when I’m alive and can appreciate them.”

  Maggie’s aunt (her grandpa’s sister) had always said that from time to time. The truth of that all came crashing down the day of Mr. Bradley’s funeral. So many people far and wide had come to pay their respects. The church was jam-packed.

  Maggie couldn’t understand. The hypocrisy of the scene sickened her. Her fury and sadness wrestled for position throughout her body. How could they all be here when none of them even stopped by the house to check on him, Grandma, or even offer a helping hand with the yard and garden he treasured so much in his prime?

  Maggie’s body was stiff as each person embraced her. The “sorry for your loss” muttered from each person sounded garbled. Everything became deafening. She excused herself and stumbled to the bathroom. Maggie locked herself in one of the bathroom stalls. Several dry retches transformed into body shaking sobs. How could God snatch such a wonderful person like Grandpa but permit these heathens to still walk the earth?

  Although it felt like hours, it was only minutes Maggie took to compose herself. Maggie walked back into the church. Everyone was standing up. It was time to journey to the cemetery. Maggie resumed the position next to Mrs. Bradley. Although the grip on her hand was snug, Maggie didn’t have the heart to tell her grandma to loosen it.

  After the burial, Maggie and Mrs. Bradley were asked if they wanted to go back to the church. Maggie ordered the driver to return to the house. Mrs. Bradley grumbled that she wanted to get out of her thigh highs. But Maggie knew the truth—she was experiencing a bit of social overload and just wanted to be left alone. While Mrs. Bradley sat on her husband’s favorite couch, Maggie sat curled in his favorite lawn chair under the carport. Her last coherent thought before she drifted off to sleep was of the tea she used to make her grandpa.

  When Maggie woke up hours later, she rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was dreaming. Maggie closed her eyes, and then slowly opened them. The same images were still in front of her: rows and rows of bagged fruits and vegetables—all of them unmarked.

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for downloading Mr. Bradley’s Garden. This short story was one of my favorites to write. It was loosely based on my late grandfather. Plus it goes to show that I’ll always be a Southern girl at heart.

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