Milkweed(Dale Flowers) My dad always told me how elves could ride on milkweed that floated down from the big tree in our backyard. In late summer I’d watch from my bedroom window as the white silky fluffs drifted through the air. The elves as small dark specks clung playfully on their ride to earth. I ran out of my bedroom, down the steps and out to the backyard. By the time I got there, they had already scampered away. Only the milkweed on the taller blades of grass remained, struggling for one more tumble in the summer breeze. Anyone that small must have run for the tulip bed where they could easily hide. I’d search, of course, but the results were always disappointing.
“Dad? I asked, “Why can’t I ever find any elves?"
He gave me his all knowing smile, one that bordered on laughter, and said, “Anytime a human sees an elf it changes him.”
“Changes?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, taking a long thoughtful drag on his cigarette. He held the cigarette by two nicotine stained fingers and exhaled thought his nose. The smoke pushed down and then gently lifted up and was gone. “Elves can’t be too careful. They know we humans have power to change what we see. You didn’t know that did you?” Again, the smile. The cigarette went back up to his lips. “Yep, highly susceptible to how we look at things.” He took another drag and buried himself back into his newspaper. I went back outside to contemplate the power of my eyes. I stared at a line of ants harvesting bread crumbs over a sidewalk crack. They were carrying off the part of a sandwich Billy Redtree had dropped last Friday. No matter how hard I stared, they seemed indifferent. I knew ants had the skeletons on the outside; probably this shielded them from my stare. I tried it on one of Mom’s roses, for maybe a good minute. That was when I noticed several wilted petals with their black shriveled edges. I leaned away quickly, and glanced up at the living room window, not wanting Mom to see what I had done. Never again would I stare at a flower that long. Even at Grandpa’s funeral I avoided looking at the flowers: the large white lilies, red carnations, irises, and back to the lilies again until finally settling on Grandpa; What harm could it do? His pale nose, chin, and forehead lay above the rim of the casket. He was the first dead person I had ever seen.

Seated in pews, we were walled in by stain glass windows of Saint Paul’s and a bunch of other saints. There were only two clear glass windows. A flurry of milkweed was streaming by the one closest to me. I wanted to ask my dad about the elves. But my mom was in between the two of us. She had the sniffles pretty bad. Did elves attend funerals? Did they have some special task to perform? They were such a secretive lot. Who knew what they might be up to? One of the milkweeds got stuck on the outside of the window sill. I started to stand up for a better look, but Mom sniffled and put a firm hand on my shoulder forcing me back down. I tried to get dad’s attention, but he just kept fidgeting with his breast pocket. It had a hanky in it. Maybe he was gonna get the sniffles too. He peeled it forward. Behind it was a pack of Winston’s. He rubbed the tops of two filters. Mom gave him a look, and his hand dropped down to his lap. It was a nervous hand, one that needed to climb back up to his breast pocket. The milkweed was nervous too, alive with a struggle, each of its silky threads shaking and twisting. I just knew some elf was stuck up there. If I rushed outside and helped him down, he’d know I wasn’t someone to hide from. We’d be friends. He’d show me magic. Maybe, just maybe, he’d give me some. I wouldn’t seem little to him. Outside, I was almost tall enough to reach up on the window. There was probably a bucket or a box or something I could climb up on and help him down. He’d be so thankful. My dad always said I had ingenuity; I’d show the elf ingenuity, my special power. My mom put her hand on my shoulder. She didn’t want me staring out the window anymore. I wondered how long Grandpa would take.
Father Polanski said something about ‘remembrance’; everyone bowed their heads. That’s the thing about church. You don’t have to listen, just watch, so I bowed my head. He said a short prayer. This was good, because now everyone got to stand. We filed into the aisle. Slowly, everyone worked their way up to Grandpa. We were kind of far back. We could have had a closer seat, but Dad needed to finish his cigarette before we piled into the Chevy.

The milkweed was still doing its tangled dance, its silky arms shaking. We were only three more people from Grandpa. I wanted to get outside in time. I sure hoped so.

When driving to Grandpa’s funeral, there was a dead dog on the side of the road. It was Billy Redtree’s dog. He had it since a pup and got it for Christmas. Mom said that made it special, but dead things weren’t special.
“Dad,” I said, that’s Billy’s.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Why did that happen?”
“Bad elves,” he replied.
“Bad elves?” I asked.
“The ones with the black magic. You can’t expect good things all the time. You just can’t.”
His voice was kind of stern; it quieted me down. Now I understood that some elves should be avoided.
“Ok, Father,” Mom said, “That’ll be all.”

That quieted dad down; he even muffled his cough, but I wanted to know more about the black magic. Did she think I wasn’t old enough? What kind was up there on the window ledge? Mom should’ve quieted down; I needed to know. She said if I wasn’t careful my imagination would run away with me.
We were only one more person from grandpa. His casket was surrounded by flowers and had the sweet sickly smell. Was that because Grandpa was starting to rot? He looked OK from the top. Maybe people rot from the bottom up. I didn’t want to see him any more. It was hard not to see grandpa as not being special. I grabbed mom’s hand to let her know. But she just pulled me up to Grandpa. My chin came up to the edge of coffin. He was kind of stuffed into the frilly purple cloth. It was a lot like the purple pajamas he wore, except this was darker. It was the same color purple I had seen Father Polanski in during a high mass. I remembered because he looked like a very large bird, not like a Sesame Seed Big Bird, but more like the kind from the zoo. Grandpa was very pale. Billy said they drained dead people. That might’ve explained it. Grandpa’s nose always looked a little chipped, like something had taken a few nips out of it. Maybe he had a run-in with one of those bad elves. I looked over to the windowsill; the elf was still there, struggling. Did the elf come to see Grandpa off? What if it was one of the bad ones who nipped Grandpa’s nose? My mom pushed me closer to Grandpa. I put my free hand on the casket to keep from stumbling forward. Even his lips were pale. Dead people really looked drained. I tried to get my hand off the casket. It was cold, and I didn’t want to get drained; I need someplace warm, like my pocket. My mom had a tight hold on me. Her hand was shaking, and her sniffles had turned into sobs. Dad was patting her gently on her back. She was squeezing my hand pretty hard. I couldn’t lean away from the casket. That’s when I noticed Grandpa doing something I’d never seen him do; his hands were folded. I don’t think he prayed much because Mom used to get on him about not going to church. He was in church now. That should have cheered her up a bit, but her sobbing was becoming kind of embarrassing.

Dad led mom away from Grandpa. She still had ahold of me, and I was pulled along. She didn’t need to do that; I was more than ready to go. Grandpa’s hands worried me.
“Mom, can Grandpa pray?”
“No, we’ll do that for him now.”
“But his hands.”
“His hands—oh, they just put him like that to make him look natural.”
“Then why didn’t they put his hands in his pocket?” Grandpa always had his hands in his pocket, rattling his change. He’d have me guess how much. He said if I guessed right, I’d get to keep all of it, but I never got it right. Dad once said, Grandpa was so old, he’d cheat death. I must have guessed a million times and never once got it right. Maybe Grandpa had cheated me. Maybe a bad elf guessed right. What did Bill Redtree’s dog owe a bad elf? Did Grandpa try to cheat an elf? Was this how an elf got even?

Dad escorted mom outside with me still attached. While she worked her nose with a tissue, I went around to the side of the church. It was just as I thought. The window was out of reach. Even with my hands outstretched, my fingertips barely touched the windowsill. I needed something to stand on. I ran to the back of the church. There, by the faucet, was a bucket. Grabbing it I ran to the window, set the bucket upside down in between the rose bushes, and climbed up on it. The milkweed was gone. Standing on the bucket I looked around. In one of the rose bushes the milkweed was stuck. Jumping down, I got up good and close. The elf was gone. He could’ve been hiding anywhere.

“Hey, let’s go,” called Dad from the corner of the church. “Everyone’s ready.” He coughed, waiting for me. I jumped down and ran up to him.
“You shouldn’t cough,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
“Mom doesn’t like it.”
“I know,” he repeated.

He took me by the hand and led me back to the Chevy. We waited in the Chevy with the engine running. They slid Grandpa’s casket into the back of a hearse. The hearse pulled away, and we followed in a long line of cars. Grandpa’s cemetery was filled with smooth rolling hills of grass. Grandpa’s grave was close to a tree. A breeze pushed the tree’s shadow over the grave site. It shook a bit, then retreated, letting the sun back in. Everyone gathered to one side of the grave. Father Polanski sprinkled some holy water into the grave using a silver shaker on a wooden handle. It would keep the bad elves out. But what could they do? Surely, Grandpa wasn’t special to even them anymore, unless . . . were pockets filled with change?

Dad had a coughing spell. Mom’s patted his back. When that didn’t seem to help, she looked cross. Father Polanski made the sign of the cross and so everyone did, except for Dad who kept right on coughing. He pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket. His Winston’s fell on the ground close to the grave mound. A dark cloud was moving in. That was when I saw it: a tuft of milkweed was stuck three, four, five graves over on a tombstone that was in the shape of a cross. An elf was struggling; the milkweed was filled with a twisted fury. He wanted to get down. Maybe he was afraid of getting blown into Grandpa’s grave. They’d be fillin’ it soon. If no one noticed, what would happen to the elf? I backed away from Mom, between my aunts and uncles. When I was sure no one noticed me, I ran towards the cross. A strong breeze shook the milkweed free. It didn’t blow it towards the open grave but away from it. I ran after it. The elf was getting a pretty good tumble, his little speck of himself unable to get free. I ran from my dad’s cough. I ran and ran, his jagged harsh cough growing faint. Stopping on top of a hill, I looked through a fence made of black iron poles that had points on top. It was where the cemetery ended and a busy street started. Across the street was Veteran’s Hospital where Dad went for his cough. At first, he went just on Tuesdays. Then he went every Tuesday and Friday. Finally, he stayed there. The next time I saw him was at Saint Paul’s. He had the same sickly smelling flowers around him as Grandpa had. This time Mom and me rode right behind the hearse. We were the first to get out at the cemetery. There were hundreds and hundreds of silkweed drifting through the air. A dark cloud moved over us. It looked thick and heavy and you just knew it would be a soaker. Every one of them was gonna get washed down to earth. It was not good for elves to come to earth too quickly. When I asked my Dad why, he said, because they’re too small for that. We walked up to the grave with one silkweed bounding over the ground ahead of us. It tumbled into the grave. The rain started. My aunts and uncles gathered around. It was cold and made me shiver. Drops struck the dry mound of earth, sending up little powdery puffs. It didn’t last too long before becoming a muddy mess. One fat drop splashed next to my black loafers, sending a smear of watery dirt over its toe. I looked up at mom to see if she disapproved. She had the sniffles again. Little dirty rivulets ran off the mound. They turned into little dirty streams and poured into the grave. My mother took my hand as they lowered Dad into his grave. I thought I heard Dad cough twice. No one else seemed to hear; my ears were closer. A milkweed was floating half soaked in one of the little streams towards the grave. It got stuck on a wet clump of earth by the grave’s edge. The stream built, washing the soaked seedpod into the grave. It really didn’t seem like anything an elf would be interested in.

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