What about the yellow flowers?

She squeezes my hands like my fingers are thin lemons. I'll let her. I do not dare to look at her. But I know she's biting her lips; I realize there are tears in the corners of her eyes. Her upper body is shaking. But nevertheless, Esther is sitting next to me. Who would have thought that at the start of the week? She may not be able to control herself completely, but she still radiates it. Determination.

On Monday morning she called me. She sounded distant, cold. In thin, measured words she told me that her mother had died. She had told me about it. That her mother was terribly ill. Esophageal cancer. But having been out of touch for decades, her mother's illness was not a topic of our daily conversation. Esther also did not indicate that she felt the need for this. She had often indicated that the relationship with her mother was a book that she had closed.

But when I visited her on Monday evening, there was no trace of her calm, her peace left anymore. She sat at the kitchen table, defeated. Old photo albums lay open in front of her. Did I hear children's songs coming from the Bluetooth speaker?

“I don't understand it,” she muttered, upset. “I thought it would not affect me. Her death. I was sure I was over it. My relationship with her. My bond, my history. Then why am I so emotional? What is wrong with me? Why do I react like a small, powerless child?”

That's how our relationship has evolved over the years. When I'm in trouble, she's the one who brings me back down to earth with her silly jokes and her lame comments. Without ever having agreed upon it, I do the same when she is melancholic or in misery.

But this mood is very different. Totally different. Her grief is too sharp, too intense to soften it with a nice pun. To take the edge of it by smooth stories. I sit opposite her, dumb and speechless. Heavy tears roll slowly from her wet cheeks on drip listless onto the photos. What would she feel? Sadness? Fury? Disappointment? Anxious? Helpless? Confused? I do not dare to ask.

Now it is Friday afternoon. We are sitting in a room where the funeral service is being held. The walls are cream white. As well as the ceiling, the curtains, the carpet, the decorations. All seats are occupied. Esther and I found our spot in the back row. Most family members sit in the front. The coffin in which the mother lies in state, is to the left of the cream white colored stage.

Family, friends, and acquaintances give short speeches. Esther also prepared some words she would like to say. She has been busy with it all week. The first drafts of her speech were the length of a short novel. She just kept writing. Day and night. She tirelessly confided to paper what she felt for her mother. And that was quite something. The awkward thing was that she inclined to read all the versions to me out loud. She kept on asking. Did I have any suggestions? Was it all well worded? Was it clear enough? Did I miss anything?

What I missed was peace, distance, insight. Her sadness, her anger, her frustration, her resentment, was an endless sea in which she swam relentlessly. A movement without a goal, an activity without head or tail. It was as if she was afraid to lie still, to not move. If that would happen, would she be anxious of drowning?

Of course, I should have said it. But I was too afraid to confront her. Or even worse. I did not know how to get through to her. In my opinion, it would be better if she didn't say anything at the funeral service. No speech. Just silence. A soft, cream white silence.

Suddenly, it's Esther’s turn. She clears her throat, walks to the front, places herself behind the microphone. My hands are sweating.

“This morning, I got up. And I wondered for the umpteenth time. Who am I? Why am I here? But for the first time in decades, I knew the answer. A burden was lifted from me. It felt that I no longer needed to chase the ideal image if myself. What I realize now. I am kind, but also occasionally a bitch. I am strong. But sometimes I am terribly afraid as well. I'm forgiving, But also as stubborn as a donkey. I am myself. But ultimately, I am my mother as well.”

She walks to the coffin. Put lovingly a bunch of sunflowers on it.