Page 4 of Cedarwood Cabin
“I keep getting reminders of how I look like my mother,” I admit, feeling nervous.
“Your resemblance to her must hold significant meaning for you,” she suggests. Images of my mother flood my mind and I feel a lump form in my throat.
“It can be a blessing. Other times…It’s a painful reminder.”
“I can understand that. Your mother lives on through you, Flora,” she reassures me.
I hated to ask the question. “Will I ever get over my mother’s death?”
She listens and gives an awkward smile, yet her gaze is gentle. “You were sixteen when your mother died of Covid. You were very young. That’s a lot for someone that age to take on,” she responds empathetically.
“It still feels like yesterday…”
“Grief doesn't have a timeline. It’s a journey you take at your own pace. You need to allow yourself to feel and to heal.”
My breath becomes shaky. I am grateful for her understanding and the safe space she provides during our sessions, even if I dread them beforehand.
“Thank you,” I say, giving her an awkward smile.
“In time, the pain may lessen. The key word is time.”
I feel a mixture of hope and sadness as our session draws to a close. I need to take one step at a time in order to heal.
TWO
FLORA
My father throws his backpack on the kitchen table, wearing his hiking gear. The bright colors of his worn cap have faded over the years. He finishes packing, tightens the straps, and ensures everything is in place.
I check to see if I have all my essentials as my father looks up at me.
“Bear spray?” he asks as he zips up his backpack.
“Got it,” I reply, patting the side pocket where the canister is tucked away.
I walk to the hallway mirror and apply a layer of cherry lip balm, admiring my outfit for a moment. I have on my black hiking leggings and a black tank top. They both fit snugly and allow easy movement. Over my hiking outfit, I have on my favorite navy blue hoodie. In the reflection, I see my father wearing his dark cream cargo trousers and forest green fleece, looking outdoorsy. He catches me looking at him and gives me a reassuring smile.
“Looks like we have everything. Let's hit the road,” he says, giddy. His excitement makes him look cute.
I tie my hair up into a ponytail and grab my own backpack from the table. I look around the kitchen one last time and head towards the door. I chuck my bag in the truck's backseat and jump into the passenger’s side. The inside of the truck smells of old leather and musk. My father gets into the driver's seat and rolls down his window. We buckle up our seatbelts and then hit the road.
The sun casts long shadows through the trees onto the road as we drive through the quiet town. My father glances over at me, smiling, and I can’t help but smile back. I can tell that he is excited to go on this hike; it brings me joy when I see him happy.
I turn on the radio and find a station that plays cheerful, old music as my father starts bobbing his head to the beat.
“How did your appointment go?” he asks.
“You know, same old, same old…”
I don’t like talking about the details of my sessions. I stare out the window, watching the outside pass by. My father can sense my hesitation and doesn’t question further.
We pull up to a traffic light and I see two black motorcycles in front of the truck. Two men sit astride on the bikes, both built like gods and covered in dark tattoos. They both wear worn jeans, one in a white T-shirt and another in a black T-shirt.
One of the bikers turns his head back, looking at our truck. He nudges the guy next to him and his gaze follows. Their faces are obscured by their blacked-out helmets and dark visors, giving them a menacing look as their attention lands on us.
“You know them guys?” my father asks, not letting his eyes leave the bikers.
“No?”
