Cinnamon

September is when I scour the stores for dragonfly charms, stained glass flowers, and artsy frogs in search of the perfect birthday gift. I go to the same boutique every year, hazelnut latte in hand because it’s her favorite drink, and slowly wander through each aisle. I linger in the section with leather-bound journals. The paintings lure me in, water color trees catching my eye because they remind me of the one I gave her for Mother’s Day years ago. It would go well on her living room wall, next to the wood stove where she knits. Purple earrings glimmer in the light near the doorway and I run my fingers along the beads, imagining how they would compliment the colors in the earth-tone wool scarf she wears when running her errands.

I laugh, thinking of her birthday dinner a few years ago. When she greeted me with a hug, I breathed in her familiar smell of cinnamon. She wore a dark sweater and a stone dragonfly necklace. The table was decorated with confetti, and we had drinks while she enjoyed the same halibut dish she usually ordered. She made friends with a handsome man I was eyeing at the bar, while I giggled in embarrassment. He asked me to dance and she told me to go ahead and enjoy myself. I returned after the dance to find the bill had been paid and she had returned home for the evening in hopes that I would live the carefree life she didn’t get to have.

In a rush not to be late, I dash out of the boutique and stop at the flower shop to pick up the Iris bouquet she so looks forward to. When I arrive, I pull on my mittens and readjust my scarf, the one she made me, before stepping out of the car into the chill evening air. I walk towards her in the dark, not quite as ready as I once was to celebrate her birthday, but needing to all the same. I stop and there it is, her grave, her final resting place. The vast view of the mountains she called home forever behind take my breath away. Sometimes I think she knew it would be like this, but I never was prepared for it. It seems selfish not to take my time when she has none, so I stay as long as I can before I get cold. I set down the Iris bouquet, close my eyes and, for a moment, I can smell cinnamon.