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Mom always wears a silk ribbon–a ugly one–in a sky blue with obnoxious red and white polka-dots decorating the length of the ribbon, long enough to wrap around her wrist twice. I’ve never seen her without it. When she’s cooking, it’s in her hair tied in a neat bun. When cleaning, tied at her hair in a ponytail. Or sometimes, when she’s curled up on the couch reading me to sleep, the ribbon would be on the table beside her. it’s always with her.
Well, except when she’s gardening.
Peering through the bushes I hid behind I peeked intensely through the leaves outlining the figure of my mom, her hands dirty and icky with mud, her forehead streaked with sweat. But as always her lips pulled into a familiar smile of satisfaction staring at her bed of carnations, all red besides the lilies growing to the left of them.
I tilted my head in confusion as I realized the ribbon she had today tied around her hair was different. A dark pine green instead of the distasteful blue-red-white that made my retinas sear. Stepping out from behind the shrubs, A thin strip of cloth caught my eye, standing in bold contrast against the dark folds of her dress.
‘Oh’ I realized, the ribbon was tucked in her pocket, safe and snug. ‘She must have left it there to make sure it didn’t get dirty’. I deduced to myself as a hint of pride swept through me at my quick observations, nodding to myself smugly like one of those proud scholars I've seen on TV.
I’ve never seen her without it. Even when she cradles me in her arms as the sirens blare around us. They’re loud, and as much as mom tries to muffle the sound with her hands around my ears I feel as if I still hear them just as clearly. Turning in her lap, I faced her as she brushed a hand through my hair, detangling the ends of my locks. She looked pale and clammy –and her youthful yet gaunt face didn't look much better with the dim lighting of the oil lamp–, but her eyes stared defiantly at the entrance to our bunker almost in a challenging manner, filled with steely determination. Another ear piercing blare of the siren jolted me from my drowsiness, alerting us of the arrival of yet another air strike, followed by the deafening boom somewhere far off.
“You can go to sleep, honey.” My mother’s voice, soft and sweet, broke me out of my stupor. Pressing a kiss to my temple tucking a stray hair behind my ear, I felt my eyes grow heavy and drowsy.
“Go to sleep, my dear,” she repeated, gently. “A bright day awaits for you tomorrow.” Another blast goes off in the distance, which she ignores in favor of tucking me towards her shoulder, humming a sweet tune. My eyes catch the ribbon on her wrist again. Blue with polka dots, as my eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep.
“Mom, where did you get that ribbon from?” I asked the very next day as I stood beside her while she washed the dishes from lunch. “From your father, dear,” She replied, scrubbing the stains on the pot. “He gave me a beautiful bouquet before he left. Do you remember?” I blinked at that. I do remember. It was a beautiful bouquet in fiery vermilions and white blooms, and that ugly ribbon was tied around the stems instead of paper like the one he’d seen in shops.
“You mean the ones he gave you before he went out to the front lines?” I whispered, as if sharing a secret. She stayed silent. A beat passed before I continued, “Will he be back soon?” She turned to me, staring at me in an almost indecipherable, setting down the dishes before picking me up in an embrace. I melted into the hug, wrapping my short limbs around her, clinging to the fabric of her dress.
She didn’t speak a word of my question during dinner, but the silence answered for me.
I stood here alone today. Watching the light drizzle of the rain cascade around the umbrella I held. I plucked the best blooms from the garden. Bright white lilies and carnations in crimson reds. Pulling a blue polka dot silk ribbon around them, I tied them in a neat bow. I knelt to the ground, brushing away the stray crumbles of dirt that dotted over a stone tablet.
Bringing the flowers up to my face I breathed in the fragrance of the flowers one last time almost reminiscent of when she would do the same. Approaching the marble plaque I placed the bouquet gently over it, turning away to look at the cloudy sky above me.
‘Maybe they’ve already reunited’, I thought to myself, staring blankly at the gray clouds blocking the sun covering the sky in haze. I cast one more glance at the grave before turning away.