The Weight of Lilacs

The scent of lilacs always takes me back. Not to some idyllic childhood memory, but to the sterile, too-bright room at the assisted living facility. Mom loved lilacs. Always had a vase of them on the kitchen table, their heavy fragrance filling the house. Now, they were a feeble attempt to mask the antiseptic smell that clung to everything in Willow Creek.

I sat beside her bed, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant, unwelcome soundtrack. Her eyes were closed, her face pale and etched with lines that seemed deeper than I remembered. I smoothed a stray strand of silver hair from her forehead. "Mom? It's me, Sarah."

Her eyelids fluttered, and her gaze slowly focused on me. "Sarah… you came." Her voice was raspy, weak.

"Of course, I came. I always will." A lie, maybe. There were years I didn't come as often as I should have. Years filled with my own life, my own problems that seemed so much more important then. Regret, a familiar ache, settled in my chest.

She tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "The lilacs… they're pretty."

"They are. I brought them from your garden." I'd snipped them that morning, feeling like a thief stealing from her past.

We sat in silence for a while, the only sound the relentless beeping. I wanted to ask her the questions that had haunted me for years. Questions about my father, about the choices she made, about the silences that had always separated us. But the words caught in my throat. It felt too late, too cruel to burden her now.

Instead, I said, "Remember that time I tried to bake you a cake for your birthday? It was a disaster."

A faint smile touched her lips. "It was… memorable. The frosting tasted like salt."

We both chuckled, a weak, watery sound. It was a small, fragile connection, but it was there.

Later, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, she reached for my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Don't… don't wait, Sarah," she whispered. "Don't wait to… to say what you need to say."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. I knew what she meant. Don't wait until it's too late.

"I love you, Mom," I said, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. "I always have."

A single tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek. She squeezed my hand once, then her grip loosened. The beeping of the monitor continued its steady rhythm, but somehow, the room felt quieter.

The lilacs filled the air with their heavy scent, a bittersweet reminder of the things left unsaid and the love that had always been there, buried beneath layers of silence and regret. I stayed there for hours, holding her hand, the weight of the lilacs, and the weight of everything else, pressing down on me. The scent was beautiful, but it was also a reminder of what I had almost lost, and what I would never have again.