I can name every note of the sweet pea’s scent. Like most girls, from a young age, the delicate beauty of flowers was enrooted in me. “Sweet Pea,” I was always affectionately called by my mother, whose own birth name meant “violet flower.” While too soft for some, I earnestly cherished this second name and relished in the connection it forged between us. Many afternoons as a kid were filled with backyard flower picking. Floral dresses were my wardrobe anchor. And during the growing years of teenhood, my signature scent was “sweet pea” perfume—a recurring gift from my mother. A natural starting point for what I would later come to understand as the thread between mother and daughter, flowers became a thing we had, and sweet peas, a potent symbol in the tapestry of my childhood.
On my path to full bloom, I sought after flowers. In gardens, grocery stores, TV shows, and memories. Whenever the day was seconds too long or ounces too heavy, flowers made the difference. Their colors served as a vibrant counterpoint to the muted moment I was facing, and their fragrance was a gentle reminder that nothing lasts forever. As accents to joy, they were assuring. Lessons lived in every petal. Flowers have always had a place with me and, perhaps my mother introduced us in preparation for vacancies. Either way, I’m thankful we met.
***
The morning unfolded like any other. Sunlight had stretched its way to the top of my bed where I lay long past the time to get up. Drifting in from outside were the faint sounds of students in The Village and the strong scent of spirits from the previous night’s affairs. And further grounding me in the comfort of a new day, my phone chimed with projected plans for the weekend. Slicing through the ordinary of the day, the phone rang with a call that would twist the familiar into something alien.
It was my dad’s voice on the other end, strained, tight with a grief I could not yet comprehend.
“Hey Dad,” I said casually.
His words tumbled out saturated in tears, yet quickly with little buffer as if a short delivery could eliminate a long landing. Through the distance, all I could hear was “gone” and the repetitive sounds of sorry. My mother was gone, a finality that refused to register in my brain fully. The words themselves felt inadequate, a hollow caption in the face of such news. As if the ground beneath me had shifted, I collapsed, my body sinking into the beige tiles until help arrived.
The following days were a whirlwind of practicalities and emotional numbness. We spent the time pushing through funeral planning and familial remarks that mirrored Hallmark cards. Even with the revolving door of passional guests, loneliness and silence resided within the walls of our shattered home. The rooms that her body once warmed were cooler and estranged. Passing the time, when I saw the empty living room, now filled with flowers, it rose in me that their familiar scent now had new significance. A tangible link to her memory.
When I arrived at the funeral home to view my mother’s body, I wasn’t prepared for the smoke that would cloud me. This was the first day I’d spent with her since her passing, and there, in a quiet room where only God looked on, I could finally breathe. As I looked at her peaceful body clothed in gold attire, I felt the brightness of her being bounce off the casket and land with me. All the fires in my life that she quenched were pushed to the front of my mind, and a train of memories too. I let them consume me, and suddenly I was back in the rear seat of her blue Windstar, where we turned the car into a stage, singing Whitney Houston with all we had.
Sing it, Whitney! was her go-to line every time the singer would climb notes like ladders. She always said she wanted us to know good music for the bad times. She came alive during those car rides, her smile big enough to fill the whole front seat. This was our time—her, my siblings, and me. Illness kept her home more often than not.
Illness after illness latched itself to my mother, and the steady moments once shared with her became fleeting. There were years when the chair meant for her at birthday parties, choir events, or the nail salon stayed empty, and left my feelings scattered to grow wild in the corners of me. Yet, her presence never faded, and I started to see more vividly the complexities of being both a mother and a patient. With more health concerns than children, she longingly sought to weave us into the fabric of her simple days—style, soap operas, Oprah, and God. I moved through these moments automatically, unaware that they were her final offerings.
We were not alone in the visitation room anymore, and narratives of my mother began to float like clouds as relatives grieved. I was too lost in the fragrance of what was once us to be moved, and in a breath, my fingers found the flowers on her dress. I traced them until I could hear faint echoes of her saying, “Sweet Pea!” with the same cadence she always gave it. Even though the sound was not real, it swallowed me whole. I let out a trembling burst of everything at once. I was never going to hear her say that again, but she was off to heaven. She was free again after a long fight, and we sang the old hymn “Hard Fighting Soldier” the following day at her service. As voices rose like incense in song, I found myself retreating to a familiar place, smiling at the flowers around her casket that guarded her until I could bring her flowers again.
***
Left to grapple with grief, I began to pick up the pieces that fell like petals all over my life. I had known grief before, but this encounter was different. It was persistent and unpredictable. Its proximity to me and my distance from reality were a complex combination to cycle through, and I found myself caught in the wash loop. For many days, every day was an attempt to cleanse and come clean. Detached yet with clarity, I dropped into mourning, and it would be a while before I came up for air. My closing chapters of college were filled with trying to earn two degrees: one in English and one in grief.
Every day required me to parent myself through loss and be my own comfort during the aches and pains. Sorrow was my second shadow, and I desperately tried to flee from its presence using parties and deadlines. Most days, I was cold, and on the best days, I was lukewarm. Mother’s Day became a recurring bruise, and holidays were left with a gaping hole. Looking at others with their families was hard, their joy brushing up against my pain. I was left with questions only a girl had for a woman on Blackness, relationships, and other matters. Throwback photos of her had a permanent place next to my bed. My favorite pastime became a version of “I Spy” where my weary eyes would search for pieces of her in just about anything. Grief was draining me, and it dared to ask for more. Unready, regrets settled in, responsibility fell into my lap, and new roles found me. I managed it in moments by lacing memories with legacy until they made the perfect bow.
I submitted to every current of healing, and with each tide, I simultaneously grew closer and further from my mother. That’s the odd thing about healing: it closes chapters by opening new ones, and I was left with the demanding task of assigning her space in my life. The road to peace felt hostile. I felt as if I was catapulted from the shore to the sea, yet still responsible for my return to safety. Stroking through each setback, healing required that I be my own witness to the journey. Never knowing how, only when, I began to weave the past into the fabric of the present, and therein lay lessons that have altered my life.
To belong, we have to bargain. Any spirit that fills a space answers to someone or something. I wanted to belong to a place of peace, so I counted its characteristics and exchanged some of mine. Identity doesn’t need permission, but it demands conditions. To be the person that parts of my mother built, I had peace define the terms of my being. Pain has a way of bringing about performance, but within these terms, I could only bring unfiltered presence. Slowly, this relationship with peace started to feel less like surrender. I began to honor her not just in the way I was aching, but in how I was living. Soon, I was giving more to peace every day, and it was giving back. We can’t be afraid to offer peace to ourselves in exchange for control; trade for what needs to be treated.
In Black bodies, resilience is a strand of DNA. The history of our ancestors lives in our present bodies. We carry their strength. As I made my way back to the shore, there were a few times I almost drowned. The weight of my loss was too heavy at times, but I kept swimming. Even on the days I wanted to sink, my mind would recollect, and I would resurface. After all, my mom faced physical pain for twenty-nine years and endured. My laps were her legacy. Daily, I would look down into the blue and see myself more clearly. Because of her, I was becoming. She moved me through the water with her ways, and I carried our similarities with me — fashion, education, cooking, curls, and pain. In the midst of distress, it’s easy to forget the resilience we possess. Healing does not mean floating on top of the pain, but rather diving into it and swimming into its ripple effects. No pain has been faced and changed without the willingness to meet the deep and the refusal to go under. Resilience is ancestral. In the face of everything that pulls us, we can choose healing, because our families chose to swim through every uncharted water.
The beauty in loss is connection. Connection is what keeps everything alive and makes a moment more than time. At church, we sing a song called “Our God, He is Alive” that testifies to his living by virtue of creation. Connecting with my mom after her death was how I forged a new way of life. Flowers have been a canvas for my healing. She was the first person to give me flowers, and I have been gathering them in her name ever since. Evocative of her spirit, they hold her memory even when my hands can’t. As if my fingers are stitched to their stems, I cling to every bloom. I connect in other ways too: when I look down at my hand and see the freckles on her face, or on Sunday mornings when I sing praises alongside her best friends. I am my mother’s creation, and even loss cannot close the space where we connect. Connection doesn’t end with physical presence; it stays with us like a secret. It is the thread that ties us together, in life and loss, and gives us the beauty in existence.
***
Almost 10 years later, I am a wife, mother, and more. Losing my mom was the hour that changed everything, and the constant presence of loss continues to reshape me. Resembling the sweet pea flower, her life filters my living through the dewy, honey-like droplets it leaves behind. Her absence is my teacher of life and rewards me with new layers of depth and drive. And by inheritance, what shaped her now frames me. From the hardened soil of grief, I continue to grow, and with every sprout, she settles more into my bones. Tragedy left more than sorrow; it opened me for transformation, and life, well, it just smells more like flowers.
To anyone who has known the profound ache of loss, I hope this essay lingers with you like the sweet pea’s fragrance. To all who haven’t, grief can be consuming, but you can learn how to navigate its landscape and find yourself in healing. May you all let the moment blossom.
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