Hazel

Trigger warning: Themes of death

Who am I? I’m still me, am I not? Am I? I often pondered this while I sat under the blossom tree, day after day, night after night. Of course, though, I can’t be me. How can I be someone if I no longer have a person to be? Others like myself have passed me over the years. Wandering souls seems to be the term used most for people like me. People. We aren’t people anymore, and I am not wandering. I always thought death was difficult to think about. It never scared me because there is nothing to be scared about; you can’t be scared anymore. You can’t worry about it if you don’t have the ability to think or worry or feel. But now I’m waiting, sitting, hoping with what little hope I have left. One day, I will see her again. Someday soon, I know I will.

The day my life slipped away from me wasn’t like in the movies. I didn’t weep, nor did I smile. I was ready to go. I may not have been old or sick, but I was ready. I awoke that morning with a feeling I cannot describe, not the feel of impending doom, or the feeling that it was my last day. I felt at peace, like my suffering was finally over. I smiled that morning for the first time in years. I opened the door and stepped outside, and took a deep breath. I felt free. I got myself ready. I tied my shoes tight but not too tight. I dressed in old clothes that I could play in, and tucked my hair into a ponytail because today at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I was finally free. I sat in my old ripped garden chair and waited. I didn’t have anyone to spend my last day with, but I didn’t feel the need to be in anyone's company. My ex-husband was living his best life; my parents were long gone. It was only me, but that was enough.

I could never move on, and love another. My love died with her, in that car, in that lake. They all said that grief would pass with time, but it never did. She was my life, and that was taken from me. I suppose that means when I died, all it took from me was the shell my soul was forced to remain in after my life was ripped away from me in that damn car. I truly died two years ago. She would be five now. I imagined she was sitting across from me at my cheap dining room table while I celebrated her fourth and fifth birthdays. Smiling cheerfully, showing off her dimples. Dipping her spoon into her blue cake and dancing excitedly. She was a breath of fresh air, my girl.

I’m not saying I wanted to die, but I never hated the thought. I had already died in that car with her, but someday I would be alive again. I hoped I would be able to find her again in the afterlife. I wondered if she has aged; I haven’t seemed to. Although my sense of time now seems to be messed up. I discovered that dying is a lot like being born; you don’t remember it happening. I visited my funeral, though, before I walked to the blossom tree. I had died due to an earthquake. A tree fell onto my house, crushing me in my garden chair before I could react. Unremarkable. I used to have a fear of becoming unremarkable, no one to miss me, no one to remember me. A part of me feels hurt that that has become true, but she is more important. So I have and will continue to wait under this tree until the day I see her again.

The blossom tree is a good way to tell the time. When the blossoms are in full bloom, I know it's March, and when the tree grows back its leaves, I know it's summertime. The blossom tree looked ugly in winter. I remembered the way it looked that day, too. It was raining and the road was slick. All it took was one second. One second to lose control and slide into the lake. Thirty seconds to take a little girl's life. Thirty seconds to steal a child from her mother. Two years to take a mother's life. Three years to reunite them. I only know it has been a year since I died, thanks to the tree. It was a spring day, though; the breeze was light and the petals from the tree feathered to the ground around me. I saw a small child in the distance. She had long brown hair, and she sang as she walked. I looked around for a sign of her parents, but as she got closer, I noticed that her hair never swayed in the breeze, and that her feet didn’t disrupt the grass. I watched as she sat at the bank of the lake beside the blossom tree and watched the water.

Could it be her? She looks five, although her clothes are a perfect fit. Maybe wandering souls do age. I stood up and walked towards her to kneel behind her. I took a deep breath and placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned and looked at me. “Mamma?” she whispered hopefully “Are you real?”. “Hazel, it’s you.” I felt the tears prickling in my eyes. She smiled at me with those dimples, and my world lit up. I took her in my arms and held her. I finally found her, my daughter, my love, my life. I may be dead, but I feel more alive than I have ever felt.

When I opened my eyes, I was still holding her, but we were in a field. I knew that it was heaven; we made it together. The war is over; we are together again. The misery and pain I succumbed to for years have finally passed. I am alive again, in this place with Hazel. I am glad my shoes are tied tight because I have a very overdue playdate with a little girl.