The Flower Collector

If I listen hard enough, I can still hear the laughter that once flowed through this house and across the surrounding fields. Its sweet melody sets the backdrop to all of my memories. The fragrant smell of the flowers surrounding me makes me nostalgic. How was I to know that being a mother would change me? I was no longer the flighty, carefree girl, but a mother. It is one of the most remarkable things and every woman should be allowed to experience the wonders and joys. From the first moment you are handed the tiny little life that has been growing in you, you are in love. You will go to the ends of the earth and defy all that you can to keep your child safe from harm.

I have watched him grow and can remember everything, every moment. When he was a baby, and unable to communicate with words, he would smile at me. His eyes would light up when I would appear at his crib and a beautiful, toothless grin would be my reward. I can still remember the softness of his skin, the little dimples in his knees, the way his eyes would cross when I got too close. He would watch me intently as I moved around his room. The slight breeze I stirred would send his mobile twirling. His tiny arms would bat at the movement and he would grunt in frustration. I remember how he would turn into my hand as I caressed the soft fuzz of his head. He would giggle when I bent down to inhale the wonderful scent that emitted from him right after his bath. Oh, to hold my baby again.

Then he grew, and I was overjoyed and frightened to watch him take his first steps. I stood at the end of the hall, my arms outstretched, waiting for him to come to me. His chubby little arms stretched high, reaching for me. I would will him not to fall, I didn't want to hear him cry, knowing I could not always comfort him. We would dance in the sunshine together and his peals of laughter would bring me such joy. He would pick the tiny little flowers growing in the clover then give them to me. A gift from my son, I always kept them. At night, when it was dark I would sit on his bed and hum a lullaby until the weight of exhaustion took over and his bright eyes closed in defeat. I would then stretch out next to him and wrap my arms around his little body and keep him safe and warm. How I wish I could hold that little boy.

He moved into childhood faster than I wanted him to, but he then began to bring me real flowers. I still have them too; to me they are just as beautiful as they were the day he gave them to me. We would walk through the meadow and he would gather them up. He would tell me about his day and his visits to his friends' houses. We would sit on his bed at night talking until his grandmother would call out to be quiet. We would giggle together knowing that she wasn't really mad. I would lie down beside him and tell him stories until he drifted off into his own fairytales. I miss my little man so much.

I watched as his limbs stretched and he became older. I would wince when he fell off his broom or jumped out of tree and landed wrong. I wouldn't run to him and smother him, which would be treating him like a baby. I cheered on the sidelines as he and his friends played Quidditch together. If I close my eyes I can almost smell that little boy stench, dirt and sweat; it is not so bad. We didn't talk like we used to except late at night, where no one would see him talking with his mother. I would reassure him that it was okay to be different, that the world would be boring if everyone were the same. I continued to get flowers, on my birthday or special occasions and I still have them; I collect them like memories. Each flower is still bright and beautiful, and can transport me back to the day it was given. Such small gifts, but they meant so much. I yearn for that young man.

He no longer talks to me, he is a man now and as the innocence of childhood has been replaced by the reality of the world, he cannot see me. I am now a memory, a shadow that moves along the wall, a pause when he thinks he hears something. I am always here and I always will be. He still brings me flowers, to my resting place. Sometimes, when he really needs me, I will leave one for him. I hope he knows it is me, how could he not? He will find a fresh sunflower on the windowsill or a daisy by his bed and I hope he is comforted by it. Today he turned seventeen, a man now.

I leave his room as he readies himself for bed. I move down the hall to my mother's room. She has just drifted off to sleep, still a little aware of what is around her I come closer and say, "Thank you mum, you have done well."

She smiles and nods. A movement catches my eye and I look up to see my father entering the room. He takes his place on the bed next to my mother. His once bulky frame barley makes an indention in the bed. He wraps his arms around my mother and holds her as she slips into dreams of him. I smile at him and leave the room; he is here to watch over her, as he does every night.

I once again enter my son's room and I am not surprised to see my husband there. He sits in the old rocking chair, where he always sits, and watches our son drift off to sleep. He may not be able to see us, but in his heart he knows we are here, watching out for him. We are his parents, and though we are not physically here, we are still his guardians. I move to the window and the full moon streams in, right through me. I go to the bedside; Teddy is in those moments right before sleep, the only time he can still see us. I kiss his temple and I am rewarded with a small sigh and a very faint, "Goodnight mum."

Remus reaches for my hand and I stand by his side. He is no longer affected by the full moon; he has not been for the past seventeen years. We have worked out our differences in this afterlife; we have had a lot of time to talk. We are so proud of our son and we are grateful to my mother for raising him so well. She may have thought she was alone, but we are always here, always guarding, and always collecting the flowers.