The Memory of Her

Chen found his mother's old scarf hanging in the back of his closet a faded silk square dotted with cherry blossoms. It still smelled like her jasmine perfume. He pressed it to his face, and the world dissolved. Three years since she left. Still, perfume had the fragrance to be alive on the scarf just as when it clung around her neck when she wore it. Soft cloth against the skin was so soft and smooth even after it's been so many years-worn but so fragile, delicate like her. Chen had never kept much of a distance with his mother. He felt disoriented in this remains of life, now without his mother. It was almost as if it spoke to him in a voice that he was the only one to hear-it was a tie between the present and the past. A kind of momentary escape from his chest, or rather, what felt like those sharp pangs of grief catching him at totally unexpected moments.

He lay on his bed, clutching the scarf, letting memories flood into his mind. And each memory seemed to have some laughter, some love, some imperfection from his mother.

Age 7

Smoke billowed into the air: the perfumed scent of burnt rice, and thick mist hung within. Chen's mother stood near the stove fanning the smoke detector with a towel, flushed. Her face is flushed and beaming from this frantic attempt at righting an error. A glint appears in her eye, as well as an inviting smile, followed by words low and inquisitive:

"Don't tell Dad about it. It is our secret".

Chen prodded the crispy edges of congee with his nose wrinkled in distaste. "It's gross".

"It's adventurous," she corrected him, with lifting spoonfuls of blackened rice and sprinkling sugar over its top. "Like eating a dragon's breakfast".

Chen stared at the blackened rice, unsure of what she meant.

But her voice was light and tinted with humour, making him laugh through the disarray she created. Both sat on the floor, cross-legged before the low table, and they touched with their legs because they shared this sweet, milky congee, which brought out warmth into them. They forgot the beeping sound of the smoke alarm from the disarray in the kitchen. Laughter welled up between them, and for a few moments, all that existed was the joy of being together. Chen had always thought of those moments as the "imperfect memories" moments when everything wasn't quite right, yet somehow, everything felt perfect.

(Age 16)

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a gentle buzz in the stark hospital room. Chen's mother lay in the bed, her face thin and colorless like a skin almost as pale as if it were fragile flower petals. Her voice was barely above a rasp as she called his name.

"Read to me," she said, her hand reaching out with an effort for the worn pages of her favorite book, *The Little Prince*.

Chen nodded, sitting beside her in the chair.

He took the book in his hands, the familiar, comforting weight of it grounding him in a world that seemed increasingly alien. His eyes skimmed the pages, his voice trembling with every word. The room smelled of antiseptic, but his mind was back in their living room, where she used to read him the same stories, her voice strong and warm. He wanted to turn back time, take her hand, and tell her everything would be all right, but that was impossible now. The words of *The Little Prince* ran together as his vision blurred. He tripped over a line, the one with the rose. "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

Her hand squeezed his, soft pressure there where a small smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's us," she whispered softly but packed full of love. "My rose.".

At that moment, Chen realized. She had always been his rose, just as he was hers. Their bond was deeper than anything words could say, more fragile than the petals of a flower, yet stronger than anything else in the world. As he read on, the dawn light crept through the window, signaling another long night together.

(Two Weeks Before Her Death)

The last time they had fought, Chen had been so furious with her. He wanted to watch her fade away, her body growing weaker, her spirit waning, and it was in that frustration that he couldn't look past the fatigue and terror in her eyes. So when she attempted to stand and walk to the bathroom, he reached out to steady her, but she batted him aside.

"Stop treating me like I'm made of glass!" she snapped, her voice harsh, but there was pain behind it. "I'm still me."

Chen recoiled, hurt, but also angry. "I'm just trying to help!" he had said, his words laced with the desperation of someone who couldn't bear to see their mother so frail, so vulnerable.

"Help by living," she said, her tears streaming into her eyes. "Don't waste your life watching me fade."

He strode from the room and the words lashed him like a slap. He did not speak to her for three days. He could not. It was as if they had said all the things they had to say but neither of them could bear the weight of it. She was too weak to say anything by the time he came back to see her, but the look in her eyes told it all: so melancholy and filled with regret.

That argument stayed with him, like a wound that never healed.

Age 14

Chen had forgotten her birthday. Not on purpose. Life got in the way. It usually does. But walking through the front door, his mother sat in the kitchen alone with one cupcake and a burning candle, one that had probably been burning longer than the couple of hours the cake was made for. Guilt churned in his stomach, but all she said to him was: "Hi. Happy birthday to me, and you, Chen.".

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

She stood and pulled him into a hug, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "You're here now," she said softly, kissing the top of his head. "That's the gift."

They ate the cupcake in silence. The flame of the candle was extinguished; the wax remained on the plate as they sank into the unspoken sadness suspended between them. For a long time, Chen felt he'd never forgive himself for that moment. But in retrospect, now he understood it. It hadn't been a perfect birthday at all, but it was theirs, and by the end of it, it was all that mattered.

 Age 17

Chen thought he knew his mother's life like the back of his hand. But when he found the shoebox under her bed, filled with letters she'd written but never sent, everything shifted.

She had not let him see pieces of herself as he had not let her see pieces of himself. He sat down on the floor, the box in his lap, and opened one of the letters. In places, the ink was blotchy as if she'd written and rewritten the words again and again, unsure if she should send them at all. One letter was to him.

"My dearest Chen,

I am afraid. Not to die but to leave you. Be obstinate. Be gentle. Burn the ghec.

Love,

Mom

He folded the letter, his heart aching for the mother who had always been strong and fearless, yet carried the weight of that fear.

He never wrote to her, either, saying that he'd read it. It seemed, in a way, almost a violation of trust-however, he knew it wasn't. For she had protected it from him as a shelter. But this was something even from a distance wherein she appeared so precisely to comprehend what he most wished to read. 

He could hear her wheezing in the stillness of the room. Chen sat beside her, his hands resting on hers, timing the seconds between each wheezing inhalation and each slow fall of her chest. It was eternity, he felt every one of those seconds as this hour ticked by, every word unspoken, every glance exchanged, every inch of himself to her.

Tell me a story, she whispered, her voice weak but intelligible.

Chen nodded, his eyes misting over. He began to recite The Little Prince, his voice cracking as he stammered over the words, the ache of impending death settling in his chest. But still he spoke on. He could not desist. He would get through the story, even though his heart was going to break.".

He couldn't say his last words as he reached the end; he was choked by them.

But she smiled at him and grasped his hand tightly, her weak hand. "My rose," she whispered.

She died at 3:17 a.m. And in that fatal moment, along with her, the last remnant of his childhood disappears to leave behind an out-of-proportion silence that could no longer be tolerated.

Chen turned his head sharply back to the world of living things, cramping his hand shut around the scarf. Again his phone beeped him to consciousness and this time he found a message from his dad.

Dad: More of her recipes. Try again?

Chen glances at the text on the screen and lifts his fingers back from it with his answer to be Yes.

He sat down at his old wooden desk in his room that night. The moon shone through the window, throwing long shadows across the floor. On the grounds of the old, thin pages, before him lay his mother's recipe book. He never quite learned how to cook as she did, but something within him stirred now. It was time to try again.

Chen picked up a pen, feeling the weight of the words he was about to write. He thought of the shoebox full of unsent letters, of the quiet moments he had shared with her. He thought of the scarf in his hand, the scent of jasmine that still lingered in the fibers.

And he wrote.

Dear Mom, 

I'm still scared. But I'm learning. 

Love, 

Chen"

He folded the letter into a crane, folding the paper and creasing it with his fingers. It was a small gesture of remembrance, but somehow it felt like the first step toward healing. He stood and walked outside, the night air was cool against his skin. He went down to the roots of the old oak tree at the bottom of the yard, tucking the crane into its place there in the earth.

In the dead of night, Chen could almost hear his mother's voice whispering softly to him, lovingly reminding him that it was all right to burn the congee. And maybe, just maybe, it was all right to be imperfect too.

And with that, the grief, though still present, became something more manageable. Something he could carry with him, rather than be swallowed whole by it.

The legacy of love, imperfection, trying again would be there.