I like the daffodils. And the big, bent brown leaves. Every time I bring them to mommy, she smiles a big smile and takes them from me. The best part is that she makes them where they will last forever. She sprays them down with hairspray, and freezes them, then they never go away! She always puts the leaves in a big bowl, and the flowers in a vase and puts them out until I bring her more.

She wore a sachet, filled with lavender and rose scented potpourri, one that you never saw her without, jangling on her hip. I can't remember a single time when her perfume didn't fill the house. It was no wonder with how she twirled about the rooms, graceful and cheerful, the sachet, like a censer, bouncing at her side. Nothing she did was ever like a ritual, though. She was spontaneous, alive. I can still smell her sometimes. I might be walking near the garden, or in a candle shop, and for a second it will waft up to my nose, before being tainted by other mingling smells.

She's staring at me. God, what did I do this time? I know that look, and she most definitely is angry at me. I can't stand it when she does this. Passive-aggressive b****. Why doesn't she just get up and say something? She knows that I know that she knows something, so why doesn't she just come out with it. S***. I hope this isn't about the other night. I closed the window, didn't I? Or did I fall asleep? I am going to be in so much trouble if that is what this is about. God, god, god, god, god. If you have any pity, you won't let her know. Any pity. Anything but that. Maybe it is about the way I parked the car. Maybe, but not likely, I think I parked it pretty well. My room hasn't been cleaned like she said to do. I'm sure that's it. I'm sure.

White halls, horizontally measured for facilitation. Checker by checker after checker. Heavy popping and whirring of wheels pass me as I run. A chorus of cheers come from an open room, and hot rivulets chase down my tortuous face. 607 not 611. The hall moves by and I come to another open door. When I enter, and see her in the bed, I'm hit by a flash, and I am not longer in my body. I watch my movie, and see myself collapse, with a hollow thud.

I got a call yesterday. I was at work, but my voice-mail picked it up. I could hardly hear her on the recording, but she sounded upset. I don't think she was trying to relate any vital news, but the way she sounded was so fragile, emotion barely restrained. But that wasn't all. That wasn't what worried me. Ever since dad died, she has been at home alone. It's not good for her. She's an extrovert, and needs to have people around her to entertain. It was a desperate flair in her voice on the phone. I wish now that I had answered.

I liked the daffodils. It wasn't that their beauty particularly astounded me, just that we had a plethora of wild ones in the backyard. Of course, that changed nothing at the time. I would have been as excited with daisies. It wouldn't have changed the fact that those petrified flowers are all I have left.