Mums

“Those are just mums. Here, we have some nicer flowers in this corner. Much more festive.”

My hand hovers over the purple flowers in the glass case. Just mums. The world goes black for a second while I struggle to remember how to breathe. How can I tell her what mums mean to me? How can I say they are the birth flower of the baby I held lifeless in my arms? How can I express the joy I felt at unexpectedly seeing them out of season, like a gift from my son, a soft reminder that his presence, his love, never fades?

I focus deliberately on the blooms in front of me, taking in their oblong petals, their sturdy stems. Just mums. Nothing festive. Just another casual flower, brushed aside in favor of fancier, flashy arrangements. I think of all the casual days I could have had with my son. Not the fancy ones, not the flashy high school and college graduations. Not even the wedding we will never attend. I imagine a trip to the grocery store with a sticky brown hand resting in mine. I picture him darting down the pasta aisle, curls bouncing over his dark eyes as he happily grabs the mac n’ cheese. “Please mama, can’t we get more? I loooooove it!” I pretend to consider, watching the hopefulness in his eyes before nodding and playfully winking. He …