Gemotions

She found herself in the garden, the roses she and David had meticulously cultivated in bloom, their vibrant colors mocking the grey landscape of her heart. The pruning shears lay discarded on the flagstones, their sharp edges glinting in the sun. She had always found peace in the ritual of tending to the roses, the delicate dance of snipping and shaping, but today, her hands trembled too much.

Her daughter, Maya, a girl who once clung to her for everything, now spent hours amongst the roses, meticulously charting their growth in a notebook. Maya now knew every variety by heart. The girl was mimicking her, copying her every move with the roses. Maya’s passion for horticulture, a constant reminder of David’s love for the garden, felt like an open wound.

“These ‘Peace’ roses are perfect, Mama,” Maya said, her voice lilting, her face glowing with a joy that felt alien to her. She watched Maya, the way she now carried herself, the way her words took on the cadence of David's garden-filled conversations. She turned away. The sun felt too bright, the air too heavy.