Paige Huntsman

Inspired by “Love Goes On”, a mural by Nick Walker

“Love goes on Amara” my grandmother says to me, grabbing my arm before we walk into the church. This has been her motto for as long as I can remember. A mantra that she lives her life by. It’s a lie. Love doesn’t go on. You can try to hold onto it, but it’ll slip through your fingers like smoke. It ends abruptly, leaving you feeling like an empty shell. I stare at her for a second, taking in the streaks of mascara under her eyes, the tightness of her face as she studies my own. I can see how much she wants me to believe this, to be ok. But I can’t be ok, can’t be whole, without my mother. I nod stiffly though, the itchy fabric of my dress scratching my neck. I clutch my left hand in my right, rubbing my thumb over the ring that had once been my moms. A small reminder of her that I hope will get me through today.

As she opens the door and ushers me inside, I’m immediately hit by the overwhelming stench of flowers. It's a sickly sweet smell, making my stomach churn more than it already is. The room is half full, somber figures in black scattered in the chairs. At the end of the aisle is my father, shaking hands with some distant relative. Grandma guides me to him, one hand on the small of my back. I don’t want to go up there, to be near the casket. The smell of flowers strengthens as we near, making me want to throw up. The short walk seems to take an eternity. It stretches on, like a fun house filled with mirrors, misleading me. I can feel the eyes of people on us, the wave a pity rolling over me like a tsunami. My shoulders tighten as I try to shrink into myself, making it so that no one can see me. Amara, that sad girl whose mother died. Finally we reached my father. He crouched down, his suit making a crinkling sound like tinfoil. He stares into my eyes, his own green eyes that were always so full of laughter, hollow. “Thank you for coming baby” he whispers to me, “I know this is very hard”. I nod at him. Nodding seems to be the only function of communication I can achieve right now. Finally I stutter out a “D-Daddy”. He gathers me in his arms. Under the stink of flowers, I can smell his familiar scent of cinnamon and cloves. He strokes my curly ink black hair, so similar to his own. We stay like this for a moment, until he pulls me up into a standing position, then takes my hand. “Are you ready?” He says to me, nodding his head towards the coffin. ”Yes,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. Mom would have hated the flowers. She loved natural wildflowers, not those pungent flowers you could buy at the grocery store. Her favorite place to go had been the field behind our farmhouse. It was filled with beautiful wildflowers. There were all different colors, sunny yellows, warm pinks and oranges, little dots of purple. It was so pretty, so natural. Just like her. I can remember her twirling in a circle while standing in the field once, her blonde hair fanning out like an umbrella. “See this Amara? This is pure happiness! Untouched, the way it should be. Promise me you’ll keep it that way, baby girl.” And I had, swearing that I’d protect it, save the unfiltered joy of the field. I needed that feeling now, the feeling of her love of life. I rub the ring on my left pointer finger. It’s a thin band of gold, with a polished rose quartz stone in the center. I’d loved to slide it off her finger and try it on, excited for the day it could be mine. Now it is. It’s only a small sliver of that love, but it means the world to me.

I walk slowly to the coffin, stopping abruptly a foot away. Even though it’s closed, I can’t stand to come any closer to what lies inside. Because that thing is not my mother. Not truly. My mom was a ball of energy, a smile waiting to happen. What’s in the coffin is only a reminder of the cancer that took her. The shiny bald head, the pale skin with blue veins that stood out like a road map against her wrist. Yet somehow those two people are the same. I lift my arm, just barely brushing the casket with my fingers. The mahogany wood is cold under my skin, like her hand when I held it for the last time. I raise my head to the ceiling and murmur “Goodbye Mom”.

I step away and turn my head, looking for where I should go sit. I see my cousin Callan in the first row of pews, sitting with my aunt, uncle and grandmother. He scoots to the side as I wander towards him, offering me a spot. I slink down into the pews, between him and my aunt Kaya. Kaya and my mother were sisters, four years apart. They were so close, me and Callan practically lived at each other’s houses. Aunt Kaya wipes her eyes with a tissue, then wraps an arm around my shoulder, kissing my forehead. I close my eyes and lean into her as the service begins.

Later that night I’m laying in the field, staring up into the star filled sky. The air is brisk for May. The scent of corncockle and poppy wrapping me like a blanket. Fireflies fly in my face, mixing with stars. Just above me, I see a single shooting star shoot across my line of sight. A glimmer of hope in the sea of blue. She is right here with me. “I love you so much mom” I say to the sky, “And love goes on.”

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