A single yellow rose. The symbol of intense love. Not romantic love, mind you. No. It is the sort of love a son has for his mother. The love a mother has for her son. One single, solitary rose. Others may say it is too little. They may say she deserves an entire bouquet. But the singularity of the object means something to him. To her, too. It is a symbol, a reminder of the very first Mother's Day gift he had ever given her. A bouquet would look like a better gift, but the one flower meant so much to the two of them.

He pulls the rose out from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and looks at it. As is usual, his walking movements had beaten and crumpled it slightly. But that in itself is another memory of that Mother's Day as well. He had clutched that first rose so tightly to his chest in an attempt to protect it that it had been all but dead by the time he had given it to her. But she did not care. It was her son's first ever gift to her and it meant the world. Even if it did not look like it was capable of meaning anything other than a discreet trip to the garbage bin. It meant everything to her, and she had embraced him in her warm, loving way. And since that day, he had always given her a single, slightly beaten yellow rose on Mother's Day. This year would be no different.

"Happy Mother's Day, ma."

There is no embrace this year, however. And the tears slowly well up in his eyes and fall down his face as a result. There would be no hugs anymore. Only memories.

He stays silently crying for a few minutes longer before he leaves the cemetery.

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