The Weight of Lilacs

The scent hit me first, even before I saw her. Lilacs. Mom always had them, crammed into chipped vases all over the house. A desperate attempt to mask the lingering odor of stale cigarettes and unwashed dishes, I suppose. It was a smell that both comforted and suffocated me.

She was smaller than I remembered, almost skeletal beneath the floral blanket. Her eyes, usually sharp and critical, were clouded with pain and something else… fear, maybe? It made my stomach clench. We hadn’t spoken much since… well, since I left. Six years. Six years of strained phone calls and obligatory holiday visits. Six years of building a life miles away, a life she never understood.

"Hey, Mom," I said, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet room. "It's me, Sarah."

Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Sarah," she rasped, her voice thin as paper. "You came."

Of course I came. What else was I supposed to do? But the resentment bubbled up anyway, hot and familiar. "You know I would," I lied. "How are you feeling?"

She closed her eyes. "Like I'm waiting," she whispered. "Waiting for it to be over."

The doctor said it wouldn’t be long. Cancer had taken root, twisting its way through her lungs, leaving her breathless and weak. I was here to help, to make her comfortable. But underneath the dutiful daughter act, there was a tangled mess of unresolved emotions.

Days bled into weeks. I fed her, bathed her, read to her from the dog-eared novels she loved. We talked, mostly about trivial things – the weather, the neighbors, the price of groceries. But sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, the real stuff would surface.

"I wasn't a good mother, was I?" she asked one morning, her voice barely audible.

I hesitated. The truth hung heavy in the air. "It wasn't always easy," I admitted. "But you did your best."

She looked at me, her eyes surprisingly clear. "My best wasn't good enough," she said, a single tear tracing a path down her wrinkled cheek.

I took her hand, my own trembling. "Maybe not," I said softly. "But it's okay, Mom. It's okay now."

The lilacs were blooming outside, their fragrance filling the room. It was almost unbearable, that bittersweet mix of beauty and decay. She died a few days later, peacefully, in her sleep. I found her with a faint smile on her face, her hand still clutching mine. The weight of the lilacs, and the weight of everything else, finally lifted. Not completely, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to start again.