The nasturtiums outlived mom by several weeks. After the arrangements were made and the hubbub of the funeral had passed, I returned to pack her things. I found her there waiting in the empty rooms. The moving boxes made her angry and I knew I had to work quickly to dismantle her reality. She cringed while I wrapped her art pieces in newspaper and boxed them for my sister. In the kitchen I rinsed her long-empty water glass before I packed it, catching a glimpse of those flaming petals in the window box.
“They need water,” mom said from the doorway.