Elaine GrayThe Short StoryMay 1, 2013Revised: May 12, 2013Word Count: 855

Ashes to Ashes

Ever since she had had the big to-do with Carol, Alison hadn’t been to the flea

market. It was their monthly ritual to drive an hour to the outdoor market and search for

treasure, but that day she decided to carry on the tradition Carol-less.

Being back among the miles of tents felt soothing. Anybody could sell their wares

at the market, which is what made the quest to find something valuable exciting. One

booth boasted boxes upon boxes of broken dolls. Another was selling what appeared to

be stolen car parts, and the tent right next to it had a collection of beautiful antique pocket

watches. Once, on a romantic whim, Alison had bought a small grey kitten at the market.

It had died in the car on the way home. She had since tried to stick to the more reputable

looking booths.

A tent filled with pottery caught her eye. A small man sat in the center surrounded

by vases. She knelt down to examine some clay pots on the pavement and discovered an

intricately designed ceramic urn. She admired the craftsmanship that went into its careful

painting and firing. Even though it had been made decades ago, it still felt hot in her

hands, as if it had just come out of the kiln. Not only did the color remind her of her

mother’s house, but she had also just read an article in a home décor magazine about

using urns as flower vases. She traced a finger over the delicate pattern running up the

side. It was more money than she had ever spent at the flea market, but she knew that she

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must have it. The man wrapped it up while she fished the cash out of her wallet. Large

purchases made her anxious, but she felt at peace handing over the money.

Once home, she promptly placed the urn on the mantle. The fireplace itself had

been boarded up since she had moved into the small house, but the mantle remained, and

she had always loved it. The dark blue glaze of the urn looked perfect against her lilac

walls. Lilacs. She remembered the lilac shrub in her next-door neighbor’s yard. With she

kitchen scissors in hand, she ran outside and cut a small bunch of lilacs.

She took the urn to the kitchen sink to fill it with water for the fresh cuttings, but

when she finally removed the top, she noticed that the urn was not empty. She replaced

the top, as if this would change what she had seen, but when she took it off again the urn

was filled about half way with ashes. She stared down at them, reached her hand into the

mouth of the urn and gently submerged her fingers into the ashes. They felt like gravel,

but she knew instantly that they had once been someone’s grandmother. They felt

feminine and familiar. The name Matilda formed in her head. She said it aloud, and it felt

right. She dusted the ashes off on her skirt, replaced the urn on the mantle and laid the

lilacs in front of it. Stepping back to admire her new companion, Alison noticed that

Matilda seemed crowded. She removed the other items on the mantle: four novels held

between two goose-shaped bookends, two framed photographs, a small globe and a

Christmas card her aunt had sent many years ago. She stepped back again. Still

unsatisfied, she removed with some difficulty and the boost of a chair the oil painting

hung on the wall over the mantle. Although she had just removed a third of the room’s

decorations, it felt complete. She ate her dinner in the living room that night with

Matilda, and decided to sleep on the couch.

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The next morning, she thought about trying to find the pottery salesman from the

flea market, but decided that she quite liked Matilda’s company. Instead, she called in to

work sick, and spent the day getting to know Matilda better. The next afternoon, her boss

called her to check in. She said she still wasn’t feeling well. A friend called to invite her

to dinner. She wasn’t hungry. The next day, the lilacs began to look as dead as Matilda.

Alison went out and cut more to place around her.

Weeks went by, and she did not leave her house, except to steal more lilacs from

her neighbors. She ate very little and stopped answering the phone. She was enraptured

with Matilda, and had become trapped in a never-ending one-sided conversation with the

dead woman in which she had taken to transcribing Matilda’s life story, which varied in

every retelling.

Her friends worried. Even Carol tried to call. But they knew that Alison could be

reclusive at times. Finally, when she failed to pay the rent, her landlord went to check on

her. When no one answered the door, he used his key, and found the house filled with

lilacs and pages of handwritten notes. An old woman was making tea in the kitchen, and

an overturned urn lay on the living room floor, ashes everywhere.

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