The Aura of Love

The light above us was brilliant, swirling like an iridescent butterfly coming out from its chrysalis. Vivid colors painted the sky, melting like the wax of a candle in a darkened window. Lights shone down on her face, flitting and reflecting within her muted hazel irises.

I could never quite place the color of her eyes.

On her government identification, they are hazel, but I always believed- no, I knew- they were more like the jungle or ocean. Jungles and oceans are filled with secrets and beauty, their hue constantly moving and changing with the season and temperature.

Just like my mother.

But today, her eyes and face are quiet and still, exuding a serenity I had not seen since my childhood. It was perfect, as the color reflected the Borealis beautifully.

Her irises greedily absorbed all the colors raining down on her now, gathering variants of neon green light and allowing her joy to crease the corners of thinning skin.

The green light pours over us, illuminating her broad smile, giving her an angelic aura of chartreuse.

My eyes were moist, and my cheeks felt hot despite the frigid air surrounding us.

I placed my hand on hers, letting myself take in the rough yet delicate texture of her skin, no doubt from years of hard work and cleaning up messes that were not her own. Her now swollen knuckles, from braids and keeping her fingers crossed for people she loved. The veins that had emerged over time, leading their way to her heart.

Her heart.

As a child, I did not know the heart's inner workings; I only knew that its rhythmic thud would lul me to sleep at night. I would wrap my chubby fingers through my mothers' course black hair, and I felt safe.

As an adult, I can no longer lay on her chest and hear that rhythmic thud; the previous softness of her chest now replaced with a rigid and sharp machine just below the surface of her skin. However uncomfortable it may be, the subcutaneous device weaves its wiry tendrils through my mother's heart, and the rhythmic thudding continues.

The inner workings were not what blessed so many that came into contact with my mother. Her left ventricle, which was slowly beginning to fail, was not what wrapped my grandfather in love as he faced his battle with cancer. The thickening of the heart was not what the world saw when she guided me through the pain and hardships she could not shield me from.

Her heart.

The very thing I loved so much, the only thing I could not give her to keep her forever.

I made a mental note of this very second, searing it into my brain. This would be the memory I kept when all my mother's physicality had long disappeared.

We sat alone on the white powdered snow, just as we had always dreamed of doing. I had no idea why we had waited thirty-five years to make this trek, to have these moments together. Of all the moments we had shared, would this be the one I remembered the most?

Or would it be the memory of her hazel eyes watching me from afar at my first camping trip?

Or would it be the moments when she held me, her own eyes reddened and swollen from tears when I had made far too many mistakes in my youth?

I could not be sure; I only knew that this moment was one that I could not let go of. Long before this day, I had taken so many of these moments for granted. How I wish I could have that luxury again. I knew I would soon have to pull these memories out to sustain my yearning for her.

However, today is not that day. Today, my mother and I are together. We sit under the Aurora Borealis for the first time, just like we have always wanted to.