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The girls at the back of the classroom were doing my head in! I could hear their snide comments concerning me and, though I was used to it by now, they still got to me. The hole that had appeared inside of me when my mother died had never been covered-up, never stitched back together.
The comments kept gnawing away at the edges, like so many other things; my house where I lived with my mum and dad, my mum's bedroom, her dressing table, the rose scented perfume she would spray three times every morning so she could catch the scent on her clothes. Tears started to well in my eyes, so I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind where they could be put into a small box, never to be opened.
Obviously, Soph heard them too. She turns around and whispers harshly, 'I don't know what you're whispering about! How would you like it if your mum died?'
I smiled. I could imagine the faces of the girls behind me. Sad? No. They wouldn't be sad. Ashamed? God, I hope so.
'Girls, is there anything the matter?' Asked Mr Hanks from the front of the classroom. His glasses were perched on the tip of his hawk-like nose, looking like at any second now they would slide off.
'No, sir,' Sophie growls, still glaring at the girls. Mr Hanks nodded and continued with his lecture about the advantage of tanks and planes in the Second World War.
Sophie Richards. Now, here's a girl who would stand up for you in any situation. She attached herself to me in the 1st grade, offering to play in the sandbox with me. And for thirteen years, she had always been there for me. Friend? No, best friend.
Sophie catches my eye. Her deep blue eyes stare intently at my face for a minute, imagining what could possibly be going through my mind. I gaze back at her, unwavering. She sighs and turns away so I guess she's given up.
'She's gone.' Sophie says suddenly. I turn back to look at her, questioningly. 'You know what I mean, Grace. She's gone and she's never coming back. It's been five months now. Speak to me, please.' There is pity in her eyes. I don't deserve her sympathy.
I don't speak anymore, I can't speak. I've always remained silent, ever since the funeral. My last words were to my mother and I want to keep it that way.
The funeral. My living hell. No one deserves to go through such agony. I remember it so clearly; the smell of lilies wafting around the coffin, the bitter coldness of death, the murmur of condolences my dad received and finally, my mothers' face, all her worries gone. She looked so young, so beautiful! Her golden hair was swept away from her face like sun beams, her delicate features soft and unchangeable, and her white gown she wore on holidays covering her body. Beautiful. It was the only word I could think of to describe her. But the one thing that would stay with me always was the single red rose she was holding. It was drooping slightly but it still had its youth about it. The rose was what made my mum her. Roses were her favourite. Ever since she was a little girl, my grandma had told me. She had her own private place in the back garden, where she would grow her roses. Pink, red and white. My grandma joked that they only grew for my mum because whenever she tried, they would only last a few weeks, whereas mothers would last so long, they never lost there splendour...their magnificence.
This red rose, though, accented my mother as who she was. A true woman of nature. The red went so well with her flawless, fair skin and white dress. She should have been a goddess.
My dad walked over then, to stand beside me. He reached for my hand and found it already in his. I looked up at his usually hard face, which was soft for once. His brown eyes reflected my sadness. We looked at each other in silence for a few moments and then, he reached down and kissed my forehead. I felt new tears falling down my cheeks.
He looked at my mother and said, 'I see so much of her in you.' He was so quiet I nearly couldn't hear him. 'Darling, it's time to say goodbye.' He turned back to me then, waiting. He knew I was too grief-stricken to move, so he went first. He kissed his hand and then placed it on my mother's forehead 'Goodbye, my love, until our next meeting.' I hugged him, and he embraced me back. 'Your turn.' He whispered.
I looked at my mothers face and knew exactly what to say. 'Remember the time when I was very young and you said you'll always be there for me. I finally understand your words. I thought you meant just a shoulder to cry on, but no, you've always been there with me, whispering encouragement, helping me through hard times, even though you weren't standing directly beside me. As long as you're with me, I'll be okay. Never leave me, mum, never. I love you always.' I sighed and stepped away from the coffin, away from my mother.
'Well done.' My dad sighed and we both turned from our love and walked away to be given more commiseration from family and close friends.
Remembering was difficult. It made me more reclusive.
'Grace?' Sophie's voice made me jump and cast away thoughts of the funeral. 'Your mother wouldn't want you to turn away from us all. She would want you to live your life the way she couldn't.'
Even though these words might hurt someone else, might make them want to shout something like, 'You didn't know my mother so you can't say that!'
I knew she was right.
I plucked up my courage for something I never planned to do, looked Sophie directly in the eyes and said, 'I know.'