RIP Story: October 18th, 2024

They were her mother’s favorite flowers. Wynter spent the better part of six years looking for an outlet. Being outdoors, spending time with friends, journaling, none of it worked. Therapy helped but it helped in a way that made it ok her mother had died. What she really needed was something to remember her by, other than the box of ashes she kept on the mantle.

Wynter intended to spread her mom’s ashes but with nothing in the house to remain as a happy memory, she could not bring her mom’s remains to the spot she’d mentioned she would like her asked to be spread. At the time, it was such an unexpected comment. Wynter passed it off and almost forgot it was even spoken. But here she was, waiting for the moment she was ready to say goodbye.

Wynter met one of her mother’s friends for lunch. This was a childhood friend who lived close enough for three or four visits per year but too far to be a regular presence in Wynter’s youth. “Your mother loved to paint when we were kids,” Esther said.

Lunch continued for another hour. On the way home, the comment sat in Wynter’s mind. I had no idea mom was a painter. There were no canvases in the house growing up and there was never a painting supply that wasn’t meant for finger painting or a summer art project to keep Wynter occupied. The way home passed by an arts and craft store. Why not? she thought to herself.

It was expensive and slow going to start. Wynter knew all the things that reminded her of her mother, but she had no art skills. The skills that lacked were replaced by the connection she felt with the young version of or mom. Sometimes she bought too much paint. Sometimes she bought pointless supplies. It took her a while to figure out she could get tips and techniques from watching videos on the internet. Her mother would have objected to this, but in the pursuit of finding connection, Wynter felt like her mom would give her a pass.

Most nights and every weekend passed with little bits of progress. Wynter found her life and acceptance of her new life coming together. Art was doing something for her. She couldn’t define it, but she dared not try to. She felt better and she would stay on this path. Her girlfriend brought home some flowers and placed them next to the easel. Wynter had never mentioned it, but these flowers were her mother’s favorite flowers. She started painting the flowers that were there.

Her girlfriend took to bringing home new flowers to replace those that died off but stayed alive on the canvas. Time passed, Wynter’s skills improved until one day Wynter approached her girlfriend and said, “I’m ready.” She had tears of joy in her eyes. “I want you to see,” Wynter continued as she brought her girlfriend to the latest flower canvas.

“These were my mother’s favorite flowers,” Wynter started. “That first bouquet was pretty. You’ve kept bringing them and I thought it was a sign.”

Wynter took the painting off the easel and leaned it against the wall behind the box the kept her mother’s ashes.

They hugged and shared the first healed tears Wynter had cried since her mother was taken away.

Thanks for reading, see you tomorrow.

EPILOGUE: Sort of personal, sort of not. Pulled the pieces of this story from different times in my life. Some of it made up on the fly. Grief is a major station on the path to healing. The train runs in its own time, but it runs as long as you let it.