Primrose by Nilaya Kuntamukkala

         Soft pink like primroses. My mother smelled of primroses, she named her daughter after the flower she smelled of. Primrose, a name for me, a gift from my mother.

         She had pink cheeks, pink skin, so flushed with life every time she laughed or smiled. She gave me a pendant when I turned sixteen, a simple circular stone of a light pink hue. So similar to the flower that I was named for. She scraped together the coin to purchase it, selling her extra fabric, of varying shades of fuchsia, rose, and cherry blossom, to do so.

         The last day I saw her, she wore a deep pink dress, trimmed with delicate white

embroidered blossoms. Woven by her own careful hand.

         When she was lying on her deathbed, I embraced her and pulled her tight until our hearts were beating against each other. I cried until my eyes were pink and my tears dripped onto my mother’s rosy cheeks. When the pink drained from her face, fading and fading until her cheeks had no hue, she was still smiling, her fingers entwined with mine. I placed a bundle of petunias on her chest, held together with a hot pink bow.