The late evening breeze swept in as the clouds in the sky began to slowly recede, making way to the darkness to come. As I sat on the porch, a teacup on hand, the world seemed to come into a standstill. I could only process two images in my mind, one being the tranquil little garden my mother had worked so hard on, and a freshly dug grave. Only the rhythmic swing of the bamboo water fountain reminded me that time was, indeed, still passing.

Thud. Thud. Thud. I took a sip of my tea. Dianthuses tucked away in the corner. Cosmoses and chrysanthemums flaring in colors otherwise too garish to belong in this house. Then the small patches of red spider lilies strewn about.

My mother had arranged the garden to her liking, as what amounted to perhaps the only freedom she had ever had. The red spider lilies had amazed, shocked, scared many a guest. Mother refused to accept that these blazing blossoms had association to death, and she tended to them with the same care she showed all her flowers (perhaps, that statement included me, a lanky blossom whose stem was a bit too long and whose sepals and petals lack gracefulness of all the surrounding blossoms, growing wild in all the ways it hadn't been able to fit in. But I was hers all the same).

I didn't hear the sliding door open. Suddenly, she was there, wrinkles on her tired face and bags underneath her eyes. She had always seemed exhausted, but I didn't remember her this old. She had changed out of the mourning attire. I suppose what few guests we had had left (they mostly come for her anyway, not him).

"Are you tired, dear? Come in early and get some rest. Don't you have to depart tomorrow?"

I flashed her an awkward smile, avoiding lingering my sight on her a second too long. That old face was painful. I was still not entirely sure what I was about to say, but my course of action had already been decided.

"I have called for an extended leave to the office."

I swallowed.

"I would help you sort his belongings."

She tried to read my face, but I had been a champion in masking my feelings. All these years living with him prepared me for this.

Perhaps she gave up, for she stopped looking at me. She closed her eyes and placed her own cup by her side, the thin hairline starkly visible as she moved, the strands falling in all the wrong place it looked like a tangle of withered red spider lilies...

Finally, she said, "Thank you."

For a moment, it seemed like nothing had changed. I was a kid coming home from school, grumpy that the summer holiday had ended and work piled up. I sought refuge in this garden of hers after a long day of classes and extracurriculars and extra extracurriculars I'd taken so I wouldn't have to be in the house with that man. She would appear from the sliding doors, pinched my cheek and made a joke with a tray of refreshments and traditional sweets on hand (recipes taught to her by her mother who was taught by all the mothers in the family before her). I would have made a snarky remark, or two, before accepting the consolation prize (they were always delightful, not a single crumb to be wasted). She would have a seat, and lectured me on all her flowers over the cry of cicadas.

It was always just the two of us here. I didn't see why today would be different.

But today was different. A man's life had been taken off this world, and his absence had affected his surroundings in ways his existence hadn't.

My mother took my hands in hers, and I saw it again. The signs of aging all the way too early. I was jolted aghast and made my way in hurriedly, the sliding door hitting the frame loudly.

"I-- I think I'm going to refill the tea."

It was the funeral day for a man the world had forced me to acknowledge as my father.