After We Buried The Hatchet
by Floris M. Kleijne
Months after Mom died, Matt and I finally buried the hatchet. I said we should dump it in the Bay, take Dad's old Boston Whaler out of San Francisco Marina and just toss it over the side. Matt argued that it wouldn't be burying that way, now would it? Our last full-blown argument, so of course Matt got his way.
We ended up out on Sweeney Ridge on a scorching August afternoon, with two bottles of water between us, a spade on Matt's back, and the family hatchet in a hideous tie-die tote bag Gran had given me for my eighteenth. Good riddance to that. Some final bickering about the exact spot, a bout of furious digging by Matt--it's a man's job, he said, and I punched him in the kidneys--and the hatchet lay in a bed of soil.
It had fallen to us to bury the hatchet in the first place, because it was us Mom had asked. This had been when she hardly got out of bed anymore, but her grip on our wrists had carried the memory of her old strength.
"Promise me you'll bury it," she'd whispered. "It's got to end."
We knew exactly what she meant.
"Kim? Wanna say something?" Matt asked, pulling me back into the present.
Don't be stupid, I didn't say, it's not a funeral. But already I felt it wasn't worth quibbling over. And it did kinda feel like one. So I put my feet at the head of the hatchet's grave.
"Well Mom, it's in the ground, like you wanted. You can rest in peace now."
I looked sideways at Matt. He'd never let a chance pass to contradict, or mock, anything I said. But he just smiled and said, "Amen,", grabbed a handful of soil, and tossed it into the hole. I followed suit, and then we took turns with the spade filling the grave. Hiking back to the car, Matt said we should check in with our sister. We both of us hadn't talked to her in five years, but it suddenly made total sense.
Laurine wasn't even surprised to hear from us.
"It doesn't feel real, does it, Kim?"
It didn't. I didn't have to see the bemused wonder on Laurine's face, lit by the stars and her cigarette, to know what she meant. I felt the same expression relax my own face. Before August, before Matt and I buried the hatchet, I'd never have believed Laurine and I'd be this... sisterly at Thanksgiving. The taste of blueberry pie in my mouth used to be the taste of tears, of aunt Meade stomping off in a huff, cousin Stefan slamming doors.
Of Laurine screaming at me, if I didn't scream at her first.
Tonight though, Matt had carved turkey; uncle Roger had regaled us with his thickest, most implausible tales of life as a salesman; Gran had pinched cheeks and expressed love and pride at unpredictable intervals; and even the little'uns had behaved, if not with decorum, then at least with harmony and joy.
"It's real," I said, only half-believing it, gesturing to the porch behind us, to the sprawling ranch house where I'd grown up, and where the rest of our extended family were enjoying their post-prandial cocktails. "This is what blueberry pie tastes like."
My sister threw me an uncomprehending look. I shrugged.
"Never mind. What I mean is..."
Laurine wrapped her arm around my waist.
"Me too, sis. Glad to have you back." She tossed her head backwards, making her auburn ponytail jump. "Glad to have everyone back."
As one, we turned back towards the house, and walked arm in arm to where the laughter of our relatives danced from the French windows.
