transplanted | self para
feat. kurt hummel. elizabeth hummel. burt hummel. margaret standish. when. 13 may 2011, junior year. where. memorial park cemetery; lima, oh. warnings. parental death, cemetery. word count. 935
summary: kurt’s annual mother’s day routine.
The ground was wet with spring rain under the soles of Kurt’s boots as he navigated the familiar path from his car in the cemetery’s parking lot to the plot where he’d spent a significant number of Mother’s Days. Stones were always significantly more decorated this time of year, much more than they were at Christmas or Thanksgiving when the ground was hard and cold and fewer people made the time to visit. Some were covered in flowers, photos, wind chimes, and mementos, while others stood stark and blank; whether it was because they were forgotten or the families lived too far away, he was never quite sure. Kurt had always preferred a more minimal style, though the rainbow pinwheel lawn ornaments had always made the place feel less devastating.
They’d gone with a granite stone: pink specked with orange, white, and black that hadn’t faded much in the time that it had been there. Her mother had wanted something tall and white, elegant like much of the rest of the family, but Elizabeth had never been one for putting on a show in life and no one knew her taste better than Kurt - even at eight when he was helping his father pick out something that she’d love and they’d be able to afford. Maggie had convinced them, though, to have the image of Elizabeth’s face carved into the stone above her name and date range; matte black and granite capturing her face in an almost cartoonish fashion. Kurt had never been a particularly big fan of it, preferring photographs and his own memories.
“I promise, I’ll be back soon,” Kurt sighed, his cellphone pressed between his ear and his hunched shoulder, hands occupied by the large terracotta pot in his arms. “Yeah... tell her to stop worrying. Everything is ready. If she insists on bringing something, tell her to pick up potato salad on her way in. You know she’s a terrible cook and I can’t deal with another baked potato monstrosity this year.” His father’s laugh echoed through the speaker and Kurt could picture the broad grin on his face and the shake of his belly. “Everything has to be perfect, dad. You’re perfectly aware? Good, thank you. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. Love you too.” Kurt was thankful for his waterproof phone case as he heard his father hang up the phone and let his own fall into the pot that he was carrying. It would take days to clean out the dirt, greenstone, and blood meal from the cracks without it.
Reaching his mother’s plot, Kurt dropped down, ignoring - at least for now - the damp grass on his knees and the dirt that was inevitably collecting on the denim as he set the pot next to the stone. He pulled his phone out from where it had lodged in the stems and dirt and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Every May, just before Mother’s Day but with enough time to properly perform the transplantation, Kurt dug the tulips out of the back garden of the Hummel house, re-potted them, and prepared to plant new bulbs in their place. Elizabeth had always favored the tulips over the other flowers she’d taught Kurt how to grow and he knew that she would have loved to see how they came out every year. So, as per routine, he carried the large pot full of tulips and dirt and fertilizer down to the Memorial Park cemetery. This year, at least, he’d been able to drive and didn’t have to drag his father away from the rest of the family preparing for dinner in order to make it down.
“I’m almost finished with junior year,” he spoke softly, shifting from his knees to sit with his legs tucked in front of him. “My grades are good, you definitely wouldn’t be disappointed.” Kurt smiled as he dug the dirt out from under his nails and brushed more of it from his knees. “I’m thinking about running for senior class president next year. I know it’s early and summer hasn’t even started yet, but it’s never too soon to prepare, right? Preparation is important, after all. I’m sure I’d have the glee club’s vote at least. We can make buttons and everything. Speaking of glee - we’re going to nationals this year and I’m pretty sure we’re going to win. Mr. Schue has us working a pretty regimented schedule. I don’t have any solos, which I’m definitely not happy about, but who knows? Maybe senior year will be my year.”
Kurt was silent for a moment before nearly jumping out of his skin at the buzz of his phone. “pick up salad” came through under his father’s name and he groaned, pushing himself up off the ground and pressing down on his father’s face to call him again. “Dad? Yeah,” he circled the place where he had been sitting with the phone now at his ear. “No, I told you it’s in the fridge. Yes. Behind the milk. No? Okay, fine, don’t touch anything. Don’t let grandma touch anything. Dad? No, don’t - I’ll be right there.” He hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket. Burt was great in the garage but when it came to the kitchen and dealing with his mother-in-law, he wasn’t exactly suave. Kissing his fingers, Kurt touched the top of the stone, rough and unpolished.
“Love you. Happy Mother’s Day,” he smiled a sad smile and turned on his heel to climb back in his car and head home.
