Trystan Bodin /// Sunday, February 20th, 3:06 p.m.

Weeks passed before I saw you again. Winter faded into spring, new leaves sprouting on the trees. The chill in the air dissipated, and warm breezes blew pollen everywhere. The air smelled like flowers and rain. I'd nearly forgotten about you, only vaguely reminded when I'd hear news of Mrs. Sylvia. She was getting sicker, and I feared that she would pass soon.

The whole town must have felt that way as well because everyone was coming into the shop looking for flowers and a good casserole dish. I don't know what it is with southern ladies and thinking lasagna and casserole will solve a family's problems.

My shift ended early that day, so I decided to wander over to Mrs. Sylvia's house to check-in. The weather was nice so I ditched my old Volkswagen bug, choosing to walk instead. I skipped the casserole bit of the visit, since I'm not fond of cooking, and I suspected Mrs. Sylvia probably had a refrigerator full of them by now.

I walked along the cracked sidewalks, the edges pushed up in odd angles from the roots of the trees they planted too close. The further I pushed into the old side of town, the worse the sidewalks looked, until they were just gravel and stone, crunching under my feet. The houses here were old as time, though some showed it more than others.

Paint chipped and foundations cracked. Vines and bushes overgrew, blocking the view of the houses that seemed forgotten. But they weren’t, clearly, since cars that looked clean and out of place were parked in the driveway. I suppose the owners are just too old to get around to yard work. Or didn't have the money to spare.

I kicked loose stones across the pavement, trying to entertain myself. It didn’t really work, but it also didn’t matter, because I’d managed to make it to Mrs. Sylvia’s house. Her house was one of the more loved ones, with a coat of yellow paint that couldn’t have been there more than a year. The yard was mowed and the bushes well kept. It looked like a home, and every time I saw it, the sight warmed me more than I thought it would.

I crunched up the gravel sidewalk, swinging open the old metal gate. Then up the creaky steps to the patio, where the rocking chairs were sitting, waiting for someone to enjoy an ice tea and the sun.

I knocked on the door, expecting Mrs. Sylvia but then the door opened and you were there. You, smelling of boyish cologne, an unlit cigarette hanging out of your mouth, and your hair slicked back like a greaser. You, and your sweater that looked too soft not to be expensive, and your face that was sculpted by the Gods and oh-. And the fading hickeys littering your neck, almost hidden by the thick fabric of your choker. Because of course with a face like that you'd be with someone.

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"Hey, Mara right? I'm here to visit Mrs. Sylvia. You picked the Christmas stuff up from me at the store." I said.

You nodded. You looked me up and down, subtly. Barely a flick of the eyes, blink and you'll miss it. But I didn't miss it. "I remember. She's in the bedroom."

You stepped aside, allowing me to brush by you and into the house. Vetiver and cigarettes. I stepped into the living room. You stepped outside, the screen door closing behind you.

The house smelled of rosewood and vanilla, and the hardwood floors creaked with age. The fireplace rested unlit, a clear sign that winter was over. Mrs. Sylvia was particularly sensitive to cold, so her fireplace was often on well into spring. Or maybe it was because she couldn't light it herself.

I walked past the fireplace and down the hallway. The walls mimicked the outside of the house, colored a muted yellow. Pictures of children and grandchildren lined the walls, their faces smiling at me. I reached the final door, knocking softly before swinging it open.

And there she was. Propped up against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her head. She looked thin and tired, dark circles surrounding her red eyes. She smiled as she noticed me.

"Hey, sweetie. Come to visit?" She asks, voice hoarse.

I nod, not trusting myself to talk with the knot in my throat. I clear my throat, nodding again. "Yeah, just wanted to see how you were holding up. Heard you've been in bed for quite a while."

Mrs. Sylvia nodded. "Oh, I'm just peachy." She said, a knowing grin on her face. Cheeky old woman.

I let out a laugh at that, some of the tension in my shoulders and neck loosening. "Yeah, I bet. You need anything?" I asked.

"I'm quite thirsty." She said, "There's some iced tea in the fridge if you wouldn't mind grabbing it, dear."

I nodded, heading to the kitchen. There were three different plates of cookies on the counter, all wrapped in plastic over ceramic plates. I sensed the refrigerator would look the same.

I swung open the fridge, snorting. I was right, it was packed full of enough food to survive an apocalypse. Though it wasn't all casserole, there were some bowls and plates full of various things as well. I grabbed the pitcher of iced tea, as well as a few glasses from the cabinet, and walked back to the bedroom.

You were in the room now, sitting in the yellow armchair in the corner of the room. Your boot tapped idly on the floor. Not keen on sitting still, clearly.

The smell of cigarette smoke was stronger now. It wasn't overwhelming, but the emotions that came with it were. Nostalgia, grief, and comfort to name a few. It was a strange blend and continued to catch me off guard every time you were close.

I studied on the bedside table. It was littered with books, tissues, and flower vases, but there was still some space on the old wood. I set the glasses down there, pouring the iced tea into each cup. I handed one to Mrs. Sylvia, who responded with a "thank you, dear".

When I handed you the cup, you mumbled a sort of thanks, which felt too awkward for the aloof energy you exuded.

I would've thought more of it if my phone hadn't rung. But it did, and it was my mother, and I really didn't want to get upset in front of you or Mrs. Sylvia. So I excused myself, apologizing, and walked outside to face the terror that is my birth giver.