"Hey, Mama," Leyle greeted as he wandered up to her headstone, carrying a bouquet of pink lilies—his mother's favorite, always her favorite.

The grass surrounding her plot was neat, trimmed perfectly and free from overgrowth and weeds that had claimed so many of the forgotten lots nearby. It was clear there was love poured onto hers. Someone cared. Someone remembered. Fresh candles sat in glass holders at the base of her stone. Pink carnations, only a few days old, stood in a small vase, their petals still soft and unfaded. Things that were replaced weekly, he knew. Her stone, despite showing the inevitable signs of aging—a slight weathering at the edges, a softness to the carved letters where rain had kissed them a thousand times—was polished and perfectly legible. Not a speck of dirt, not a trace of moss. Lovingly maintained.

MJ's work, he'd bet money on it. He'd have to thank buckteeth later for the work—wondered if she ever got thanked for it before, if anyone ever noticed the quiet devotion she showed to a woman she'd never got the chance to fully know growing up. He made a mental note to do that more often. She deserved it. Hell, she deserved more than that.

"Just wanted to see you," he admitted as he knelt down in front of her, his knees pressing into the soft earth, feeling it give beneath his weight.

He stared at the engraving in the stone, traced the letters with his eyes like he'd done a hundred times before. Carissa Lynn Gordon. The dates beneath—too short a span, never enough time. A beloved mother, daughter, friend.

The name meant beloved. It fit her, he'd always thought. She was beloved. Is beloved. Always loved. Present tense, because love didn't die just because the person did. Love lingered. Love haunted. Love remained when everything else turned to dust.

"I'm sorry you got such a shit son," he said, and then let out a humorless laugh that scraped his throat raw.

"I... I didn't mean to run that day." His voice cracked, fractured down the middle like old glass. "I was a coward. I couldn't handle seeing you in the dirt. Couldn't stand there and watch them lower you down into the ground like... like you were just gone."

"I should've been there. Should've stood there with everyone else, should've thrown dirt on your casket like you're supposed to, should've been strong enough to say goodbye properly. But I wasn't. I ran. I've been running ever since, Mama, and I don't know how to stop."

A sigh left him, heavy and exhausted, carrying the weight of months—years—of guilt.

"Mama, I'm scared, if I'm being honest." The confession fell from his lips like a stone into still water. "I know you're up there in heaven and all, sittin' at the right hand of God or whatever the preacher says, but sometimes I wish you were here. Wish you were holdin' my hand the way you used to when I had nightmares. Wish I could hear your voice tellin' me everything's gonna be alright, even if it's a lie. Wish I could call you up and ask what the hell I'm supposed to do."

He paused, swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat.

His gaze drifted over his shoulder, back toward the parking lot where he could just barely make out the shape of the car through the trees.

"{{user}}'s in the car," he said, turning back to the headstone, to the name carved in stone. "You said you liked them. That last time we talked, remember? You said they had kind eyes."

"I think you sent them to me, Mama. I really do. I think maybe you had a hand in that, put in a good word upstairs or somethin', made sure I wouldn't be alone when you..."

The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass and distant rain.

"Do you mind if I hold their hand instead of yours?" he asked, voice small and childlike, seeking permission he didn't really need but wanted. "I know it's not the same. I know nobody could ever replace you. But I need... I need someone, Mama. I can't do this alone anymore. And they make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I don't have to be."

He pressed his lips against the stone. "Thank you, mama. For everything."