Fickle Flowers

It was cold the day Mum died. We were all expecting it, waiting for the blow to land; What with her cancer being beyond control of the doctors and specialists. I wore her cardigan to the hospital visit in hope she would remark on its ownership, tut me and warn me to not borrow her things without permission.

She didn’t. 

She didn't even notice. I don't think she could see much beneath her swollen eyelids. It took everything in me not to crumple right there and then- In a staring contest with the machinery hanging around Mum's bed like watchful robots, mechanical vultures. “Hi Mummy,”  I said all chirpy. I gazed at her wiry body lying ever-so-still almost in the bed. She seemed so small the bedframe almost swallowing her. 

‘I don't remember her looking like this.’ I told myself ‘I don't remember her being like this’ I warned myself. “Howzit?” I continued, not missing a beat. “You know, me and Steven are doing some nice hikes now. Yeah, we go all around the place really.” Mum grunted.

“And Kitty has been baking bread for weeks.” At this, her eyes sparkle. She taught Kitty how to make bread, after all. “Yep, she made this great apple cinnamon loaf recently... Or was it cranberry pecan? Oh, I don't know. You know how she is in the kitchen. A mad scientist really.” Mum nods her head in agreement. I take a seat by her. Hold her hand- Bony and fragile as it is- in mine. Her skin like Autumn Leaves. Dry and delicate. I look at the blue veins peeping from Beneath the stretched old skin. I break down “Oh, Mum..!” I gasped, leaning into her. “Mummy, what will we do without you?”  My voice cracks, and I break it off, crying silently into her gown. I inhale deeply, expecting her rose perfume. All I got was laundry detergent. Empty Hospital smell. I leave soon after, hurry home. After looking deeply into her eyes, I determine that the woman sitting in the bed is no longer my mother. 

My car is full of Crumbs from Katie's loaves of bread. I always drive her to and from the farmers market in central London. She has some regular customers Now.

The Green Grass and gray sky accompany me throughout my drive, I hum under my breath in tune to the radio. This station only plays Simon & Garfunkel so I'm set. I tried to ignore the tears as they ran down my cheeks and dripped on my mother's cardigan.

I get home to Kitty sitting on the kitchen floor, a loaf steadily baking in the oven. I sat next to her. Hear Dad leave, probably to visit Mum immediately. I glare at the ceiling, a wordless exchange between us. Soon I fall asleep on Kitty's shoulders. Cancer is exhausting.

I awake to a blaring smoke alarm and the distinct smell of burning bread. I Shake kitty awake, lazily gesturing at the oven. Still hazel-e asleep. Dad walks in, so it mustn't have been too short a nap. Kitty takes out the black and Loaf and size that it she'll have to dispose of it later once it cools down. Dad call Steven to come downstairs I on, rubbing at my sleepy eyes, taking a seat on the old couch next To my siblings, I have known them forever I think when I look at my father's eyes.

"Mum died ."

The world

Stops.

Spinning.

I Always picked flowers. Used to drive my mom crazy. I'd show up my blond hair sticking to my forehead, my dress grass-stained green. The only trouble was my Bunches of daisies and dandelions that were carefully picked we're now warm and wilted. The Magnificent flowers hanging their heads in grief Works Austin. By Chubby hand would hold them so tightly all the way home, only to have Mom throw them away. one time oh, dad showed me to press them between pages of books finally saving them for later. I would happily apply Dried petals on birthday cards and t-shirts using sticky tape and super glue the cards pleased mom, the ruined (DECORATED!) t-shirts, not so much. It seems to me that flowers, however small, however forgotten, peeping through sidewalk cracks, growing through cement and Forest floors, were made to paint the world a new shade of wonder. The day that Mum died, I set out to pick flowers, one last time. I swore I would never do it again.

I crouched down in the field behind my house, my raincoat all sopping wet and my hair drenched in rain. But I still couldn't find it. It had to be perfect, like mum. Mum. The word runs through me, shaking my core, blinding my vision. I’m only seventeen. Mum. Mum. Oh god, what if this was all some joke? What if I would turn round, and there she would be at the kitchen table? Typing some last minute blog-post, smiling at me in her classic overalls?

I lay down in the grass, staring up at the colossal gray sky. I got raindrops in my eyes and down my neck. People die. People die all the time. But why on fucking earth did it have to be MY mum?

I screamed. I shouted. There was a huge ball of rage within me that made it hard to breathe. I let it go like fire. Letting it burn my throat on the way out. 

After the rage collapsed, deep grief gripped my sides. I cried silently into the damp grass, burying myself in the familiar smell. My hands search for meaning, raking the earth for answers. All I find are snails and pebbles. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, and I walk further along. Searching for a flower. Just a flower, I tell myself. Surely you can find a flower. I spot a small daisy growing between blades of grass. Plucking it with my mud caked hands, I hold it. Cradle it in my hands. This is all I have. I was robbed of my mother. I was left empty, hollow. A discarded eggshell on the kitchen counter. I hold the daisy between my fingers, gaze at its yellow center and sweet white petals. I hope Mum likes it. 

I won't know, will I? In a moment of fury , I crush the small flower in my fist. I clench my fist round it, leaving little crescents in my palm. Oh goodness. You couldn't even pick a flower. I whisper to myself.

I have given up on this world. 

All I want to do is lie in bed and die. What is this world? Takes more than it gives. And where is Mum? 

Where

Is

Mum?