I didn't leave you my dear.

Our visits have become something of a ritual for me. With a bouquet of fresh flowers in hand, I breathe in the cold air. Letting it feel my lungs with a sense of urgency and pain. A reminder that each breathe, no matter how painful is a gift. My mother would be so proud to hear me quoting her. Closing the door to the car, I find myself preparing myself. I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s not like I need to really say anything.

The pathway has filled itself with red and yellow leaves. My footsteps disturb the silence as each leaf gets crunched beneath my footsteps. A soft tear plops itself down my face. She loved hearing the sound of the leaves beneath her feet. We would spend hours racing around outside to find the perfect crunch. And after words, we would go and get something warm to drink. Now I hear nothing but the sound of one pair if feet crunching. It brings in the sense of loss all over again.

I think you would have liked your grave. I found a place for you underneath an oak tree. I never thought I would find it to be honest. I thought you’d be another stone in the rows of countless marble slabs. But this new row has opened up. And for now, you are the only stone here and your protected from the sun. I know that’s how you would have liked it. Because its like we’re sitting in the back yard at home under our trees. I can pretend we are sipping ice tea in the shade. And that the sparkles in your eyes are still there. Laughing at me, because you’ve put whiskey in your tea again and think I haven’t noticed. I always laugh at you. And I think you can tell my the crinkle in my eyes that I know your secret. Because I’ve always known them.

I place the flowers in one of the little copper vases by the headstone. “Amelia Theresa Cook. 1972-2023. Gone too soon. Beloved Mother.” I sink to the grass and touch your headstone. I feel a sense of calm touching it. As if you really are here with me. After all you were the one who first told me that Victorian’s use to have picnics after church at the graves of their loved ones. I like to think you would have called me adventurous for coming every Sunday to have lunch with you. But deep down I know your calling me a silly goose. But if I am going to believe that you’re out there somewhere and no longer in pain, than I have to listen to the voice in my head and the feeling in my bones. I have to be open that even if I can’t hear you anymore. That you’ve still been speaking to me. That some how this overly expensive marble slab can connect me to you when I don’t hear you and when I can’t see you. That this warmth in my heart comes from more than just the memories. That the words I write in this journal make it to you. Because I haven’t convinced myself that I can talk to you yet Mom! It becomes too real if I say it out loud. It becomes a fact that your gone even though you should be here.

But I don’t want to think about that right now. I just want to sit her under the tree. And feel safe in what I can only assume is your presence. The one that makes me cry and smile at all the memories that come crashing into my brain. The voices of you in this time that you cannot reach me with words now. I intend to write it all down for you. That way when the time comes and I see you again, I won’t forget everything I wanted to share with you.

Like the disaster of a morning I had trying to make you Sheppard’s pie. How did I never learn to make it even though it is your favorite? You made it seem so easy. I’m pretty sure the crust isn’t cooked all the way, but I mean to eat it.

Maya closes the notebook she had been writing in. She’d tried to make it sound as though she was living in the moment, more than the letter it was becoming. No one could understand how much she missed her mom, her best friend. She was so distracted with trying to arrange the pie she had made neatly on a plate that she completely missed the slim doe that had made itself comfortable by the tree. It’s brown eyes seemed to be watching Maya. As if it was waiting for her to say hello.

Maya made a face as she tried the pie. She set the plate down beside her and grimaced before noticing the deer. Her eyes widened as she took in the creature that was staring at her. It was highly abnormal for a deer to exhibit such behavior around a human. And to her own surprise the deer just flattened its ears when she tried to wave it away. As if to say. Don’t be so rude.

Maya sighed as she flopped herself against the tree and stared at the deer. What was she suppose to say to a deer. Let alone a deer that seemed perfectly comfortable sitting next to her in a graveyard. The deer stuck her nose out and sniffed the deflated pie one the plate. It’s pink tongue hardly touched it before it was shaking its head. Maya stared at the deer in astonishment and started to laugh. It really wasn’t a good pie. The deer gazed at her again and gave her a wink.

Maya grinned as she picked up her notebook again,

Mom…. I think you’d be happy to know that you make a lovely deer.