| General Fiction posted April 1, 2025 | Chapters: |
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The Moment When They Collide
A chapter in the book Emotional Guest List
Grief and Memories
by Begin Again
She could hear the voices on the other side of the door — whispering, not wanting to upset her, just concerned.
The door creaked open, and a familiar face peeked around the corner. "We're leaving now. Are you sure you don't want one of us to stay?"
The woman didn't turn toward the voice. Instead, she shook her head and lifted her hand in a small wave.
Relief washed over her as the door clicked shut, but once the house fell still, a coldness crept in, one she hadn't noticed before.
The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that follows too many days of noise. She sat on the edge of the bed, a photo frame in her lap, fingers tracing the outline of a smile frozen in time.
Grief towered in the corner, watching, knowing the finality of her loss was near — like a tidal wave approaching the shore, waiting to crash against her with unrelenting force.
"She loved the rain," the woman said softly, unsure who she was speaking to. "Said it made the world feel honest."
Memory sat in the corner chair, arms wrapped around her knees. "She danced in it once. Barefoot. You laughed so hard, you cried."
Grief nodded slowly. "I remember. She, too, had faced sadness that day — just after the doctor's evaluation — but still tried to deny what was coming."
"I keep thinking this should get easier," the woman whispered. "I had warning. Time to prepare."
Memory sighed. "The heart doesn't always listen. It blocks out what it can't bear until it can't anymore."
"In time, it will change," Grief said. "But until then, you take one breath and then another until it gets a little easier."
The woman looked down at the photo again. "Do you think she knew? How much I loved her?"
Memory crossed the room, kneeling gently beside her. "She knew. And she still knows."
A silence settled. Grief didn't press forward — he knew what was coming. Memory drifted like sand in an hourglass, letting brief flashes of laughter and soft hugs rise to the surface — small gifts, not too many at once.
The woman stood, walked to the old chair by the window, and picked up the shawl draped across it. She held it close for a moment, then folded it carefully and placed it in the drawer.
Not to hide it, but to save it for a day when she could hold it and feel her mother's presence — the love they'd shared — and appreciate the moment.
Outside, the rain softened to a hush. A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of lilacs — her mother's favorite spring flower. She closed her eyes and imagined her mother's voice, soft as a dream, whispering that it would be alright in time. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she remembered how mother's always knew — a promise of a day, maybe not tomorrow but somewhere soon.
She turned toward the door. Grief followed, quiet as ever.
Memory came a few steps behind, hoping the love she carried would soften the weight Grief left behind.
The woman paused, picked up her mother's old alarm clock, and listened to the steady ticking.
Memory whispered, "It will take time... but I'll always be here."
 Recognized |
Today is my mother's birthday which she celebrates in Heaven, free from the pain of the cancer that ravaged her body. Even though it's been a few years, Grief and Memories revisit me from time to time reminding me of her and how difficult my loss still remains. So through my tears, I share these emotions with you.
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