I swish my brushes in my canteen, toss them in a stained wood box. I lay the wet canvas carefully in the trunk, nestled between the easel and spare tire.

I look back at the wild violets peeking out of the shadow of the stone. Their heads are already lowered, as if praying over the grave. A few of these blossoms will live forever, though, on canvas.

The picture will never be finished now. None of them ever are. Life moves too fast in the graveyard—the light shifts, and death comes too soon.

***

“You’re going to fail that class, Colin. Are you going to tell your mother? Or shall I?” My mother’s cousin, her doppelganger running twenty years behind, thumbs threateningly at her cell phone, scrolling through the texted chronicle of reports she’s made on my progress.

“I paint better than the professor.”

“Not if you count finished pieces.” Natalie stretches across the couch like she wants me to paint her. I’ve told her I don’t do portraits. I do still life. “Still Alives”—the flowers of the dead. They’re the memories—the last remaining thoughts of those that feed the roots. Clear minds grow pretty things. Dark thoughts grow weeds and poisons. I’m not just painting flowers, I’m painting echoes—the last stories the dead have to tell.

I can see in Natalie’s eyes that her grave would grow thistle and nightshade. I’ve warned her to see to her thoughts, lest she sleep eternal in a weed patch. But I think she likes it. I think she’d finger-paint dandelions.

“So what are you going to do for your first New England winter? What are you going to paint?” She cracks her back and folds an arm behind her head.

“I took some photos. I guess I’ll paint from them.” She must see me shudder. Knows I hate the thought. Knows it’s not the same.

“Are you still going to call them ‘still alives’ if the flowers are dead under three feet of snow?”

My teeth hurt. My whole face does. It must be the cold.

***

They call the largest model a conservatory. It has a heavy-duty composite frame and panels made to withstand heavy snowfall. Best of all, they’re opaque, and the light inside is milky, ambient. Deep troughs of rich earth line the long walls. The aisle is just wide enough for my easel.

Natalie squeezes a lump of dirt in her hand, crumbling it. “What are you going to plant?”

I’ll need a lock for the door. “Nothing. Just going to see what grows.”

She furrows her brow as best she can against the stiffening effects of Botox. “Things don’t just grow, Colin, you need seeds.”

“There are seeds in there already. I just don’t know what. Violets, probably. Definitely roses, lilies, carnations. Dandelions, probably. Weeds.”