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When I walked in, everything was the same, as if she would be coming home any minute. I meandered over to the end table and smelled the rose she bought last night.

Flowers were a thing between us. One day, a few years ago, when I had been unnecessarily upset at her I bought a flower. It was my was of smoothing over a bad day and the guilt I felt. From time to time a flower would appear from her to me or from me to her. It just appeared. It said everything the words could not.

It was hard to believe she was so far away. So I refused to accept it.

As the days passed I revisited her room. The flower still looked good. Not fresh and beautiful, but it was where she left it. I sniffed it again. Yes, it still smells like a rose.

Day after day I visited, sniffed and refused to believe change was happening. She called me from a couple thousand miles away. I guess that's when reality began to sink in.

We didn't need the room. It's not as if we had great and wonderful plans for it. With three other kids who had their own bedrooms, I left her room alone. As ususal, the afternoon sunshine filled the room and glistened across the bed. That neatly made bed. She was great at keeping her room perfect. Usually.

And then the day came. I knew it was time. As I opened her door I saw the old rose, now dried and dead in its vase. The sun still shone in the west window. It still glistened across her bed. That's when I accepted that she was gone. There would be no more flowers between us. The days of making amends with nothing but a flower sneaked into the house and waiting as a surprise, was over.

Sadly, I took the dry rose in my hands. I will not admit to crying. But it was over. It was time for both me and the room to move on.

And we did. Not long after she left I began homeschooling the youngest child. The room now sported huge maps on its walls where geography lessons took place. A chalkboard hung above the old vase that once held my cherished rose. On the chalkboard my youngest child would write fake school lessons for her rubber alligator.

In that room, the young child now put her rubber alligator on a mat, covered him up and told him it was quiet time. On the chalkboard she wrote his lunch menu. He had the most interesting school lunches.

The old room once again was filled with joy, with excitement and life. Life goes on.

Even though this happened years ago, I still remember how hard it was to accept reality. We have all moved on since, enjoying all that life has to offer. I wonder if my daughter gives flowers to her own daughter as we did. I hope so. It's a sweet memory.

Learn more about this author, Lana Stockton.
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