Jarrah Behrmann
Stories (1/0)
The Budding Flower and the Withered Rose
In her last days I used to stand at the threshold to my mother’s room and watch her, so small under the blankets. She was always staring out the windows, looking past the droplets of water that slid down the glass and out at her rose bushes. Those flowers had been her every joy and pleasure; she would bury herself in the colours and scents whenever life troubled her. She would watch them grow as the tumour grew within her. I think she was contemplating what was to come next; what would happen? Where would she go? I never cried, which was maybe not so good, not even when one morning she didn’t wake up. There was an excruciating hollow pain inside of me like something was missing. I’d cared for her as best I could and that’s why it hurt so much when she died. My best wasn’t enough.
By Jarrah Behrmann3 years ago in Criminal