The air always smelled the freshest in the morning, and the heat hasn’t had a chance to settle in yet, so it was the best time of day to go walking. The sun was just beginning to peak out over the treeline in the distance, creating a beautiful array of colors in between the branches. I brewed my usual cup of dark roast, making sure to add extra sugar. The smell always did more for me than the taste, but I always drank it anyways. Books lay in heaps on my table, surrounded by a disarray of papers and pens; I couldn’t sleep last night. My bag rested on the windowsill, empty, of course. I grabbed the papers and the few books and hastily shoved them in my bag, making sure I zipped it up tight. The coffee had finished brewing, I grabbed my favorite thermus and poured it in. Now, it was time to go for my usual walk out to the cemetery.

The gravel crunched beneath my sandals, I should’ve worn my boots instead to prevent the rocks from slipping inside my shoes. There was a gentle breeze that ruffled my brown hair into my eyes and made my dress sway like the spring leaves. The air always smelled different here, almost stale, or maybe bitter; I wasn’t sure. “One, two, three rows back, there it is,” all the headstones look the same here, some have different inscriptions, but most of them say the same generic thing. I decided to go with a gray marbled one, it only looked slightly different than the others. In the days leading up to her death, mom told me she didn’t want anything fancy, but I couldn’t bear to bury her without a proper headstone. Afterall, she was all I ever knew.

“I brought you some flowers to brighten the place up a bit. They’re tulips, your favorite, next to violets, of course,” I said placing the yellow flowers just in front of her headstone.I always seemed to forget that she wouldn’t answer me or laugh at my jokes anymore, I think I miss her laugh the most . I figured the hardest part would be not seeing her, but I think it’s the hardest not to hear her laugh or the sound of her voice. She always knew what to say to help me understand things or make me feel better. If I ever needed advice, I would always go to her first. Now I just don’t know what to do, she used to tell me, “Violet, you try to plan things out too much instead of just letting them happen naturally. Life isn’t something you can just plan out.”  Even though she was right, I still wish that I had more time to plan out the short time that I had with her before she died. I wish I could’ve taken her to London, she has always wanted to go there for some odd reason, I suppose it was the architecture or maybe something to do with the queen, but I guess I’ll never know now. She didn’t quite look like herself before she died, I feel like I lost her four months before she actually passed. Her eyes were sunken, her weight had reached one hundred pounds or less, and her hair had grown out so thin and brittle that even when she moved it would fall out. Even though all of those things were hard to see, the worst part was the loss of her spirit. About a week before she died she told me, “Appreciate your feelings, all of them. Even the bad ones because feeling is a beautiful gift that you should never be ashamed of.”

I usually spent about thirty minutes here, staring at her headstone, admiring the morning sky, and reminiscing the memories I shared with her. Today, however, I decided to spend an hour with her, I even skipped my afternoon classes so I could stop by my favorite cafe to get my favorite birthday lunch. My mom and I have gone there every birthday of mine for the past four years, but this year I would order to go. I guess there are a lot of things that I will never do the same way again. “Well, I have to go grab lunch and head to school, I love you.” I hated how my voice always shook at the last part, as if the words had burned my lips on the way out.

I retraced my steps down the gravel trail lined with flowers until I reached the edge of the sidewalk, I spun once more on my heels to gaze back. Her headstone was a mere smudge against hundreds of others, I suppose it was almost comforting to think that there were so many more who shared my pain and perhaps understood my loss. I smiled and turned my heels, sometimes you have to keep going, no matter how hard it gets.

The line at the cafe was long, it always was, but the food here was worth the wait. It was a very rustic cafe, with hardwood floors and caramel colored walls adorned with classic paintings. Hipster, my mom always called it.

“Violet?” A very tall woman in a crimson skirt stared questionably down at me. I inherited my short stature from my mother, something I wish she hadn’t passed down.

“Yes, I’m Violet,” my voice came out as a mere squeak against the background noise, she smiled down at me, handing me a brown bag with the company’s logo on it and a bouquet of bright purple flowers with a card attached to the stem. I took the folded paper in my hand, catching a whiff of my mom’s perfume and carefully opened it.

Dear Violet, I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be here with you
to see you turn 19, But i still wanted to be with you somehow.
I preordered these a Few weeks ago and told the barista
to give them to you on your Birthday. For once I decided to follow
your advice and plan ahead. I love you Violet, and I already miss you.
Happy birthday!

-Mom

Tears began to sting the corners of my eyes and I hurriedly walked out the doors and found a bench a few feet away to gather myself on. I could tell she wrote it all by the shaky handwriting, before she got sick she wrote beautifully, but after it was almost unrecognizable. I gently lifted the bouquet of violets up to my runny nose and tried to inhale the sweet scent, I closed my eyes and began to smile. She thought of me in her last days, I meant that much to her, there is nothing in this world that I will ever find that is stronger than the love she had for me. With that thought, I felt that I could finally understand just how beautiful feelings were.