The grass tickles my toes. They tell me to wear shoes, to cover my feet, but I want to feel connected to the ground beneath me. I want to remember what happened here, seventeen years ago. She was here, and I was here, too, but different. If I close my eyes I can almost see it again: the two of us at the base of that old oak tree, sagging with age then and broken now. I can hear the whispers of the wind touching our bare skin, although today it’s hot and stale. The air doesn’t smell like anything besides dirt. Back then, it smelled like her: red roses and honey. Cliche, but that’s what she smelled like.

My mother gave birth to me here, all those years ago. Now, I long to return to her.