Zinnias

Chapter one: Zinnias

My grandmother was crazy, there was no debating that. Nobody could do the things she did or carry themselves the same way without having a couple of cogs missing, it simply wasn't a natural occurrence.

No, to call it unnatural would be a blatant misrepresentation. Her way of thought, her being itself, had consisted entirely of the natural world. She followed the kind of route that threw critical thinking to the wind, the barefoot traditions that coaxed you into blind trust of the earth. It was evident even in her voice, which had been an agglomeration of something harshly Welsh and the earthy remnants of sandalwood.

It was the year 1990, somewhere in the midst of September, when I came to find out that she was dead. The weight of that revelation was strange. For one, I hardly knew the woman, despite having spent a sizable portion of my childhood in her home. The way her scowl wrinkled unflatteringly around her muzzle made up a large part of my memory of her. On the other hand, I was never treated kindly by any species of change. Maybe I had figured she was immortal; that if anyone were to live forever, it probably would've been her. Or at least she would have died under some mysterious, unimaginable circumstances. Old age seemed too trivial, too industrial, for her to submit to.

Though, however I viewed her in life must've been wrong. I realized this when I received a letter headered with the cold, grey name of some funeral company. Being a university student that was rarely sent anything more interesting than an electricity bill, I opened it immediately.

According to a "Mr. Fernstein", my grandmother had put my name in her will. To be fair, we had the same one, Anwen. It was a pesky title, something that got stuck in the throat and regurgitated clumsily whenever it was said aloud. Heaven knows why my mother decided to burden me with it.

Anyhow, that my grandmother would deign to write a will at all was laughable, not to mention my inclusion. I expected her to have demanded to be left to rot, to disintegrate into fertilizer so that she could serve a greater purpose. A will and a proper funeral wouldn't have been nearly rebellious enough for her. But, characteristically, the will itself was far from normal or proper.

Mr. Fernstein slid a copy of it across the table, nearly bouncing in his seat with anticipation. He had wanted to meet to discuss its contents and I got the impression that this was an absolute passion of his. Strange thing to be passionate about, decoding the last wishes of quirky old women, but it fit him. He somehow seemed the sort of man that belonged both in an office block and an art studio, with wild, greying hair and large square glasses.

I adjusted myself in the cold, metal chair and cautiously lifted the page. It was a photocopy of what I assumed was my grandmother's handwriting, straight and sharp like it had been carved into stone. To my surprise, I was mentioned front and foremost, without even a breath of sappy introduction or heartfelt monologue. "To Anwen Pike," it read in confident, black letters, "I leave my reputation, my integrity and my trust. I give to you my every belonging to do with what is rightful and along with them, the responsibility which that ownership entails."

That was where whatever sense it had to begin with made a swift disappearance. The next line was penned in a different language; airily familiar semblances of words that my mind couldn't quite cling to, let alone my tongue. It was safe to assume what the language was, having lived around Welsh since birth, but at that moment, it seemed a terrible waste not to have learnt any.

Mr. Fernstein sensed my pause. "To the bearer of my blood and, therefore, my mind," he recited, an ecstatic glint in his eyes. "Or so says the translation department."

"Do you get dying languages often?" I asked. Admittedly, quite an ingenuine question.

"Oh, all the time. Sometimes tongues that are entirely made-up," he chuckled, fixing his glasses that had cascaded down the bridge of his nose. "I am eternally grateful to your grandmother that she employed something real, at the very least."