Cultivating Plants

Much to Mirah’s previous displeasure and wailing, she merrily rinsed Aloe’s hair. Aloe had told her that she didn’t need the help, that she felt better now, but the woman adamantly held her ground.

“I’m used to washing girl’s hair by now with Aya. Just lemme do it.” The woman justified herself as she cleaned Aloe’s scalp against her will.

Nonconsensual hair washing aside, Aloe greatly enjoyed their trip to the public baths. She didn’t notice how dirty and awful she felt until she was liberated from the multiple layers of grime, sweat, sand, and blood, with perhaps the faintest touch of vomit. 

Almost the whole package, basically.

Aloe left the baths in a far better state than she entered them, both of mind and body, and was able to dress up herself without any help.

“You are looking healthier now,” Mirah commented as they made their way out, the air suddenly shifting from a hot and tangible steam to a still hot but refreshing wind.

“I feel lighter.” Aloe acknowledged. “As if the evils have been washed off my body.”

“And they might as well be!” The housewife added with a chuckle. “You left the cleaning pool black!”

“Oh please, don’t exaggerate.” Aloe half-groaned, half-laughed at her comment. “I wasn’t that dirty.”

“Then explain to me why the water turned black when your skin touched it.”

It took a few blinks to understand the woman’s joke, as for a brief instant Aloe thought that Mirah was being serious, and after getting it Aloe fought hard to not roll her eyes.

She resoundingly failed.

“Shut up!” Aloe groaned with the strength of two desert dwellers as she searched the shade of the bazaar canopies.

“Don’t go far!” Mirah said with a hint of seriousness. “My body becomes a bit stiff after bathing!”

“How’s that?” Aloe asked after the curvaceous woman reached her.

“Well... I do have a more sensitive skin than you.” Aloe waited for some joke to come out of Mirrah’s mouth, but after a few seconds, she noticed that the woman was being serious. 

“Huh.” She added surprisedly. “Anyways, what do we do now?”

“As much as I would like to have you resting, you have heard Jafar.” Mirah sighed. “My idea is to raid your wardrobe and make you put some clothes worthy of an audience with the emir.”

“I’m going to disappoint you a bit, but I don’t have clothes of such caliber. It would be far better if we took some of yours.”

“And how you would wear them exactly?” Mirah put her arms under her breasts, highlighting the monstrous cleavage much to Aloe’s dismay. “But worry not, I have an idea or two. Come on, follow me!”

Aloe wanted to quip the woman that she should technically go first because they were going to go to HER home – a term that was sadly more correct than ever now – but that was mostly because she was still angry at how Mirah had unapologetically boasted of her figure.

Before Aloe even knew it, they had made it to her house. The main door, while closed, wasn’t locked.

“It seems I’ll have to give Jafar an earful after this,” Mirah said as her back as Aloe strode forward, yet her mind was elsewhere.

The house was ominously dark, and of course, unpopulated. Before even thinking about changing her clothes, Aloe walked into the kitchen, a lone black urn waiting in the middle of the table.

She just... looked at it.

It was impossible to believe it, even if she knew the truth and that she had to accept it. But it was rough. One moment her mother was there, the next she wasn’t.

It was awful not knowing what to feel.

It was even worse not feeling anything. Just an all-consuming void, an eternal coldness, a dry desert of emotions.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Mirah whispered as she walked past her.

“No.” Aloe quickly turned and grabbed the woman by the wrist. “Just... let’s get me changed.”

“Alright,” Mirah responded calmly and taciturnly, not adding a single extra word as they made their way upstairs.

Aloe’s wardrobe wasn’t a paragon of eccentricity or luxury for starters, but after taking most of her clothes to the greenhouse – even if they were the oldest and crappiest ones – the furniture was mostly devoid of content.

“Um...” Mirah was at a loss for words after swinging the wardrobe’s doors wide open.

“I told you,” Aloe said with a halfhearted sigh.

“Well...” Aloe could clearly hear the pieces of the abacus shift in Mirah’s mind trying to compute how much of a fashion freak the girl next to her was.

The numbers appeared to be too big for the metaphorical machine.

“I mean, you do have a nice shawl here... And there’s a bit of green over here, which suits you a lot...” 

“Let’s just raid my mother’s wardrobe,” Aloe suggested.

“...Yeah, let’s,” Mirah admitted crestfallen in defeat.

Aloe had expected for Mirah to be the one suggesting it first, but now she realized the woman had left her mouth shut out of respect. That was what raiding one’s deceased mother’s wardrobe did to someone.

“Now we are talking about,” Mirah said excitedly, but not too much as she read the mood in the room. “Shahrazad had a better sense of fashion than you.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Aloe interjected as she shifted through the many pieces of clothing. “I’m just utilitarian, and Mom is...” Aloe gritted her teeth and continued shifting her hands through the many clothes, “was an austere person. She had good clothes for events, but mostly it’s just mediocrely common.”

From the corners of her eye, Aloe saw Mirah’s visage turn grim at her lapse, but otherwise, didn’t comment on it. Instead, her aunt reinforced the smile on her face – maybe a bit too much – and helped Aloe sift through the clothes.

---

After a few hours and countless attires, Mirah finally settled on one. It was quite simple overall, but between the good silk and the contrast of colors, the final attire was worthy of nobility, if not royalty.

“How do I look?” Aloe asked as she spun around, her long skirt swaying around graciously.

“Gorgeous!” Mirah responded with a wide grin as she clasped her hands.

The attire was mainly composed of a simple yet clean white dress, along with a pistachio shawl and Aloe’s favorite sandals.

“Though we should maybe put a bit of haste on our steps,” Mirah added after peering through the window. “Noon is long past, and I don’t think the emir will appreciate a visit in the afternoon.”

“You are right!” Aloe had become so enchanted by the dressing spree that she had forgotten the reason why she was dressing herself to begin with. “We should make haste!”

Aloe rushed down the stairs – as much as her tidy dress allowed her – but her steps came to a halt as she passed in front of the window, the funerary urn staring at her.

“One minute,” she told to Mirah and grabbed the urn in a tight embrace.

Many things went through her brain at that moment, but mainly, she thought how lonely her mother was right there.

Aloe started walking, the urn in her clutches, and went upstairs. Even if her arms were shaky, her mind was resolute. As calmly as she could, she opened the door to her father’s office. After her father passed away, it became her mother's, and now, unfortunately, it became hers.

The reason why she came in was because of the significance of the room.

Whilst Mother and Father had spent most of her time in the palace of Sadina per their jobs, when they were at home, they continued to work here.

Others may have grown sour to the attention her parents dedicated to their jobs instead of her daughter, but Aloe had always been the stereotypical grown-up kid. She understood why they did it, especially because they had ridiculously high positions for someone of their family’s hierarchal standing.

That position wasn’t to be resented, but respected.

And on this office, where all of the family members had spent a lot of their time in, rested her father’s ashes.

Aloe took a deep breath and walked forward, carrying her mother’s funerary urn with a deadly grip. She didn’t breathe again until she made it to the shelf behind the desk’s armchair. On that shelf rested not only her father’s ashes but also her grandfather's.

Mom must have put it up there at some point. Aloe thought with a knot in her throat and carefully made space for Shahrazad.

Amid, Aloe’s father rested on the left, with his wife and Aloe’s mother next to him in the middle. At the right, Karaim, Shahrazad’s father and her grandfather had his place. The man had been a stranger to her for most of her life, but after he died, Aloe couldn’t help herself but feel connected to him. His work.

“Now you will be always surrounded by family, Mom.” Aloe sobbed under her breath.

Aloe took a deep breath, wiping her tears away with her hand without dirtying her shawl or dress, and spoke up.

“You know,” Aloe began, her voice weak and trembling, “I’m going to be of age next month.” She didn’t know who she was talking to, if Mirah behind her, or her relatives in front of her. It didn’t matter. She just felt like talking. “I know it’s a tradition that mothers put the cayora on their daughters when they are finally of age, but it always seemed like a dumb one to me. They don’t even look that comfortable...”

Aloe added with a wry smile, trying to lighten up the mood. Donning the ceremonial piece of headwear that symbolized a girl passing into womanhood was a long tradition, even if it was hardly used in practicality.

“But now,” Aloe's voice cracked, her teeth grinding against each other, “now I’m sad you won’t be able to put a cayora on my head, Mom!”

And the floodgates opened.