Prompt: BONES

Title: Ivory Memories

Garland rakes fresh loose dirt over ivory memories; pulling the sleeves down on his decade old Christmas sweater. It had always been a little too small; but like the memories beneath his feet, he just couldn’t seem to let go. His hot breath circles around his head like a smokestack as he lets out a heavy breath leaning on his rake. Garland frowns as he tilts his head.

He can no longer tell what is freshly fallen snow and what is bone. He kneels down, wiping the snow away as it stings his red fingers. A pair of black sockets stare up at him. It’s almost like the skull is laughing at his efforts. Who tries to dig up or bury anything in this weather? The ground was solid rock. It had taken him hours to just break the dirt itself let alone dig down enough to even have a chance of covering up some bones. 

“Can’t even bury a bag of bones, Garland. How useless are you?” the skull seemed to say. Its voice is an Aztec death whistle of mockery. “At least remember to lift with your knees. Don’t wanna end up like me.” The spine that was somewhere underneath the dirt was enough to remind Garland to straighten his back out again. His mind wandered a bit, wondering how bent out of shape the gravedigger's backs must be. 

“Yeah, well I’m not the one whose dead am I?” Garland huffs at the skull. “Not yet.” He mutters under his breath, wiping away more snow, next revealing a hand that is annoyingly bent upward, flipping him off unceremoniously. “Ah, fuck you, you old bastard.” Garland wasn’t sure why he was fulfilling his father’s last request. He’d been a bastard and deserved to be forgotten. Even though Garland was sure he never would for both the good and the bad. 

Garland scratches the back of his neck; a tic he’d never been able to squash. The tag of the old sweater always left a rash. He hadn’t the heart to remove it, his name had been written out in delicate ink by his mother, one of the few tangible memories he had left of her. 

“She was always too good for you.” Garland’s eyes flick to the skull as the sockets seem to consider his words. His old man had always been like that. You’d ask him a question and he might not answer you till tomorrow.

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Hmm.” It was something Garland had said to his father’s face while he’d still been alive and the man had never denied it. He seemed aware of his own faults, which had always made Garland hate him more. Nothing was worse than a self-aware asshole. Near the end of his life his dad had begun to change, be better even. “Too late, you old coot.” 

Garland stands back up kicking at the frozen loose dirt. It was good enough. It wasn’t like there was anyone but him to miss his old man. If anyone came looking they wouldn’t find him without consulting some kind of medium. Time would make sure of that. Garland now, much to his disdain, owned the 10 acres of mountainous land. 

“Why’d ya have to go die on Christmas of all things?” He tosses the rake next to a nearby shovel and lights a cigar .Next comes a flask of 80 year old whiskey Garland dumps out on the ground; taking a deep swig from it himself soon after. “Whatever, just like you anyway.” Still, the whiskey he’d never been allowed to touch till now was almost worth the trouble.

Garland turns, picking up his items and throwing them into the back of a small trailer attached to an ATV. He had to get back to the house. It was getting dark and he had cookies to make. It was his mom’s old recipe. It had been left to him along with the property by his father - along with a lot of other old things he didn’t even know the old man had. He wasn’t looking forward to searching through old musty cardboard boxes, but looking through an album or two while eating snickerdoodles didn’t seem like the worst way to spend Christmas. Cookies, a warm stove fire, and ivory memories underneath mountain snow.