text: I remember that the room smelled of death. Not in a sickly way, but like dust; like sadness. And it didn’t just stay in your room, as I wished it would, but it filled the whole house, seeping through the hallway into my bedroom as well. Even when I tried to open my windows, get the fresh air from three stories up, the smell of your death mixed with the breeze and made it smell like dust; like sadness. It made me sick, the way stagnant air does, or the way the cat dandruff at Grandpa’s house did. &#x200B; And of course, you slept through most of it. &#x200B; I thought about wearing a mask indoors in those first days that they shut us inside. Of course, back then - in the first few months of the lockdown - the official reccomendation had been to not wear a mask (If only we had known!). I tried to put one on, an old N95 mask, that I had lying around. I nearly choked. The air just got harder to breathe, but it was still the same air, stagnant and sickly. I cursed the windows of our apartment for being so large and opening so little. &#x200B; I brought plants into your room thinking it would cheer you up. You smiled when I brought them in, a soft murmur of thanks. Your hair was grey, like a Grandmother’s hair, except you weren’t a grandmother: you were just my mom and I was just your son. People say we have the same face, except back then, yours was fragile and tired. I tried my best to ignore the smell, the aura of death, pulling up a wooden chair, the one that had been in your room for as long as I could remember, and sat down next to your bed. I held each plant up to you, one at a time. “This is a succulent. They’re all the rage now among young people because you don’t have to water them very much.” I looked down: “James gave it to me.” “James? What a sweet boy. You don’t still talk to him, do you?” “Mom...” “Alright, then.” “You can grow succulents by cutting off parts of the stem and replanting them. Isn’t that cool?” “Why would you want more of the same succulent?” you said, confused and a little amused. “Maybe so we could have two. One for each room. Then I could have one in my room and you could have one in here.” “No, that would be a waste of pots. There are other plants.” “Alright then.” I reached down and held up another pot. “This one is a Bird’s Nest Fern. It needs to be watered and pruned all the time. If it doesn’t get enough sunlight, it’ll die immediately. Super high maintenance.” “What a stupid plant. I can’t imagine how it survived before humans decided to care for it.” You said, and it made me smile a bit. After holding them up to you, and hearing your opinions on all of them, I set the five plants - another succulent, a jade plant, and some lucky bamboo - on your great big windowsill that looked out to the sky. Did I ever tell you that you were a great interior decorator? I think that’s what you should’ve done, instead of going out and getting your doctorate to work with kids. I loved the creaminess of our apartment. The tasteful simplicity of the plain wooden furniture. Minimal photos too. I liked that: not being able to see myself, or that it was just the two of us in the family. I was always jealous of your room. I had always wanted a faded pink comforter, just like yours, but I had always been too afraid to ask. Your queen bed, giving the perfect view of the window: I wanted that too. I wanted tasteful simplicity in my life. Adding the plants to your room made me happy: a minor improvement to an already beautiful room; the greens of the plants fit the creamy walls and made the room feel a little bit less pale. &#x200B; I didn’t realize how hard it would be to water them once I left them in your room. &#x200B; During that time, I wandered around the apartment, silently drifting from room to room - all of them bathed in the same warm sunlight - constantly checking my phone. I’m sure everyone else was too, except for you. The virus didn’t mean much to you, given that you hadn’t left the apartment or your bed in weeks anyway, but I wanted to get outside so badly. I wanted fresh air, and to get away from death, but I didn’t, because I knew if I caught the virus, you’d die even faster and in pain. Maybe it was the silence that got to me. It made the air feel so much more still without the constant hum of engines or the honking of cars outside. There were no voices to make their way into our house from the street, and barely any footsteps either. In the apartment, it was just you, me, and the low hum of the refrigerator that reminded me of the time Grandpa died. &#x200B; When you were asleep, I’d come in with my tiny watering pot and spray bottle. I’d only come in when you were asleep, which was hard to tell a lot of the time since being asleep and awake was more-or-less the same for you. I’d skirt around your door, peeking in sideways, listening for the rustle of covers. You’d be lying there, eyes closed. Just when I’d think you were asleep, one foot in the room, you’d say out loud: “Daniel? Is that you?” knowing perfectly well that it was. I shuffled into the room, uncomfortably, “Hey mom.” After a pause, I said, “Would you like to see videos that Davis sent me? They’re videos of downtown. Times Square is empty right now.” You weren’t interested, but you pretended you were: “The Governor has mandated the lockdown, right?” “Yeah. All non-essential services are closed.” “What counts as essential?” “Supermarkets, doctor’s offices, banks, gardening...” “Gardening?” “Yup, gardening.” “Just let the plants die,” you said with a snort. Then, after a pause, you corrected yourself: “Well, not these plants Daniel. Not the ones in my room.” &#x200B; Those weeks were claustrophobic, but they also felt timeless. How do you explain to friends that you’re stuck inside with your dying mother who seems to have no intention of dying or getting better? Or that you’re deathly afraid of the future where your mom doesn’t exist? I think our days kind of fell into a routine because I honestly don’t know how many days passed. You’d sleep, and I’d try to find ways to entertain myself. The only time I’d go into your room would be to water the plants or bring you food or water. Instead, I listened to music. I read books. I tried to write some poems (thank God you never read them), but no matter how long I occupied myself for, it would still be daytime, and sunlight would still be shining through the windows. I’d give up then, and spend the rest of the day studying how that light entered the room. Where it landed on the floor fascinated me: I liked how it warmed the parts it landed on and how the rays reflected off the wood. Then I’d make you some food, almost always soup. &#x200B; The plants began to thrive. You seemed to like that. A little bit of life in a room that had the air of death. I tried to get birds to sit out on your windowsill so that you’d have something to watch and so that I wouldn’t feel so bad avoiding you. I set seeds and bits of food out on the windowsill, but the only birds that came were pigeons that would fly away as soon as they had finished eating. I should have known - that only the pigeons in New York City would come - but then again, I was twenty-two and what did I know about the world? You slept through most of the bird feedings anyways. “Daniel?” “Yes?” I said, bent over by the windowsill. “Did you ever watch that movie, that one about the gay, black man in Florida?” “No, what’s it called?” I said, slightly amused and knowing perfectly well that she meant *Moonlight*. “I don’t know. It’s about a gay, black man in Florida. I think Miami.” “Mom, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I have to watch every gay movie out there.” “Alright. Well I want to watch it.” That night, I sat in your room with you, with me in the chair I always sat in, you buried underneath faded pink covers, and we watched *Moonlight* on my laptop. I felt a sly smile from you when Kevin and Chiron kissed but pretended not to notice. “The movie was boring.” “I liked it a lot.” “That’s just because you’re gay.” “No, I thought it was thoughtful.” “And I thought it was boring.” &#x200B; No one knew that you were dying really. You and I were alike in that we didn’t have many friends. Anyways, they couldn’t have come over at the time: you must’ve picked the worst time to die, just when no one could leave their house to watch you. The only audience you had was me and the plants and the pigeons, and the pigeons and I didn’t want to watch. &#x200B; I remember when Grandpa died, in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors with the lights dimmed down. There was that periodic beeping and also the sound of his breath. I sat in the corner: he was hooked up to wires and tubes all over his body, held alive only by the forced expansion and compression of an external lung. I had looked away as a kid. &#x200B; Anyways. &#x200B; I remember that the day that you died, while I watered the plants, you asked me, “Daniel, have you ever fallen in love?” You caught me off guard. It was the most sensitive question you had ever asked me. I told you that I think I had before. “That’s good. That’s good,” you murmured, in silent contemplation. You smiled a bit. Then you said, louder, “Was it James?” “No, it wasn’t James.” “Maybe you should fall in love with James. He’s a great gay boy.” “Mom!” I left the room, embarrassed. What I didn’t tell you then was that my heart had been broken and that I didn’t think I would ever be able to love again. That I was afraid that no one would ever be right for me. I remember reading stories where death brings about a particular candor: people confessing their deepest secrets to each other, and I wish it had been the same for us because there were so many things I wanted to tell you. I wish I told you what it felt like growing up without a dad or any siblings. That I used to feel like maybe if a dad had taught me how to change the oil in a car, or maybe if a sibling had taught me how to wrestle or fight, I wouldn’t have felt so defenseless and helpless all the time. But you taught me softness and sweetness, and how to treat people kindly. I wish I told you how I graduated high school without ever going to the cafeteria because if I had sat with the girls, I would have been laughed at for sitting with the girls, and if I sat with the boys, I would have been laughed at for being a boy who should have been sitting with the girls. But I got to sit down with you every night instead. And I wish I told you how upset I felt every time you scared those delinquent boys off with your wittiness and your motherly gaze. But I know that you just wanted the best for me, and maybe you were right: those boys weren't right for me anyway. &#x200B; So thanks, you did your best. &#x200B; That afternoon, I slipped into your room silently while you were sleeping, not to water the plants, not to bring you food, but just because you were in there. The air was so still and the room so pleasantly warm. I watched you sleep for a while, in that chair that I always sat in. Then, I got up and lay down next to you on the bed, above the covers. We formed two parallel lines, one on top of the covers, one buried beneath, but still pointed in the same direction, always together. Staring up at the ceiling, I studied the room from the angle you had become so accustomed to. In the corner of the ceiling, there was a single cobweb. I imagined its maker was beautiful and delicate. I imagined myself, being beautiful and delicate. Then I studied the way the light illuminated the room, watching, as the sun seemed to creep up the opposite wall. I fell asleep like that. &#x200B; I dreamed the most beautiful dream. It was filled with abstraction and light. You were there too, in the form of a ball of warmth and sunlight. We were in a garden, plants sprouting up from the wet soil, and I held you close to my heart. &#x200B; When I woke up, the sun was setting and a thin layer of dust had blanketed the floor and you had died. &#x200B; Mom. &#x200B; Mother. &#x200B; Fast forward four years. When I look back now, I think about how you acted in that bed and how you never talked about how you were dying. I realize that all the small talk - all the little prods you gave me - were all meant to make it easier on me. Because you knew. You knew that I was just a boy, afraid of death, and locked in an apartment with his dying mother: God, I was afraid. Given the irony of the situation, you must’ve been howling on the inside! &#x200B; Mother. &#x200B; I’ll always wish I told you everything I had the chance to, but hopefully, this is a start. It took me a while, but I’m a man now, moving out of his apartment that he and his mother called home for so long. And he’s taking the plants with him; his mom was never a fan of them anyway. So I’m in my car - your car - driving out to California, and maybe you’ll always be dying out east, but I'm moving out west to write poems and stories. They’re going to be beautiful, just like you were. I take in a deep breath and the air feels fresh and pure. &#x200B; I can’t wait to tell you about the people I’ve yet to meet and the memories I’ve yet to make.