the last time

Her mother’s room was just how she remembered it. On her left, a three-tiered drawer painted in the palest of pinks and covered with framed pictures of her family and friends. Her desk, carved from a redwood tree by her grandfather, situated on the wall to her right. And her bed in the centre of the room, its black wooden frame a stark contrast to the white blanket and the three white pillows neatly lined at the headboard.

She knew that bed well. She had spent much time there, snuggling up to her mama while they read a chapter of Harry Potter together. On the rare occasion where her mother came home early from work, she would join them on the king-sized bed. Her arm around their daughter, she would listen as her wife read about Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s latest predicament aloud, albeit with less attention than the child snuggled up next to her. Whenever there was a pause in the storytelling, she would pipe up and offer her thoughts or comments, much to the mock chagrin of her wife.

“I think the real reason Voldemort lost his nose is because he ran into the wrong wall at King’s Cross Station,” she once said, prompting a bubble of laughter from her wife. “Can you blame him? All the walls look the same at King’s Cross. Maybe he forgot his glasses one day and thought Platform 3 ¾ was 9 ¾. And so he ran straight into the wall, not realizing that on the other side of the wall was just”—she fake gasped—“more bricks! The horror! But he and the Death Eaters thought that that story would not intimidate the witches and wizards, so he decided to lie and say that it was because of he was the Dark Lord and of his superior magical abilities or whatever.

“And that’s why he died. Not because of the killing curse. Because he lied.” She tapped her daughter on the head. “Hear that?” her mother asked. “No lying or else you’re going to end up like Voldemort.”

She nodded, grinning up at her. “Okay!”

“No smiling. This is a serious matter.” She tried to give her a stern look, but her twinkling eyes and smile got in the way.

Those nights were now one of her most cherished memories. It was one of the few memories she had where both parents were present.

She slowly walked through her mother’s room, her heels hitting the hardwood floor with a resounding clack each time she took a step. It almost felt illegal to be any louder than she was, even though no one was in the room with her. Every now and then, she caught her mother’s lilac scent lingering in the air, a smell so achingly familiar she almost lost her breath.

She ran her fingers down the rough lace curtains that hung over the desk. Even though they were drawn, the white of the fabric seemed to amplify the light that shone down from the sky, filling her mother’s room with warmth. She glanced down at the shadows that seemed to paint new, floral designs on the hardwood floor. She used to hate those curtains.

Now, it was just something that was always there, and to imagine anything otherwise would be ridiculous. Everything in the room reflected her mother so well, it seemed as though removing or changing anything would be doing her a dishonour.

She looked down at the long black dress that flowed loosely against her calves and the dark heels she wore. She felt incredibly out of place in a room filled with light, where everything was so bright it almost hurt.

The last few years had not been kind to her; the inner turmoil and guilt she felt seemed to clash with the bright and joyful persona of the room.

She felt a pang of regret as she looked around the room again, willing her mother to re-appear on the bed, holding their well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and beckoning her to join.

If only she had stayed when her mother begged her to.

She stepped out of her mother’s bedroom, giving it one last glance as she sealed the door behind her, preserving the room, and the imprint of her mother on her life, forever.