I laid down across the grass and clutched the stone necklace around my neck. My mother had given it to me for my 18th birthday, only three days before she came down with the disease. I remembered her face, smiling, in our small little cottage, even when she knew her disease was not curable. I looked to my left, where the rose garden, her favorite place in the field, was dying. There was no more beautiful red, not anymore, except for one small rose. All the other flowers were sagging, as if they were mourning, too. I picked the rose carefully off the bush and placed it on the piano, right next to my mother’s grave. I sat down on the stool and began to play her favorite song. A tear trickled down my face and into my dress. She had taught me ever since I was four. My fingers glided across the keys and I hummed to the tune. The wind blew the sound off into the distance, but I didn’t care. Why did she have to leave me? Why couldn’t she of stayed with me? I kept on playing, knowing my mother would be happy to hear me play this song, wherever she was. Somehow, when I played this song, I felt as if she was right there next to me, like none of this ever happened.
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