My mother died last spring.
It's a surprise to me when my son brings home a bouquet of it in his small, still chubby hands. He's been gone an hour, more, and I had started hitting things in fury that I didn't know where he was and couldn't do anything about it. But then he just showed up, you see, blowing in the front door with dirty knees and wind-mussed hair, calling for me, "Mom, mom, mom!"
Then he grew very quiet, smiling a shy, freckled smile for me, and pushed them into my hand. An array of wildflowers haphazardly picked, with bugs crawling through their petals. Asters, daisies, honeysuckle…
"Thank you," was all I could manage. I couldn't scold him for running off without telling me, though I should have. I couldn't even do the proper thing and find a vase for the flowers because I was on my knees in moments, clutching him to me, close and warm and smelling of summer. And I didn't want to let him go, not ever, though I'll have to eventually.
Everyone has to let go, eventually.