Chapter Eighteen - Lena's Memory.

April 1st, 1970.

Six years ago.

I lift my head to tilt it upwards and look at the sky, staring at the grey heavens above and letting the wind blow my long blonde hair about wildly as a strong gust passes my way. Apparently spring showers are on there way. The season that everyone waited through winter for as finally arrived. But she won't ever see it. The woman who loved Spring, a true worshipper of the season, claiming that April Fool's day was not a day for playing pranks and making jokes but instead marked the true beginning of a new year - and the beginning of new life. Too bad she was right. For the April showers are on their way, the birds are starting to build their nests, and daffodils are fast budding in preparation to blow their golden trumpets. Spring has truly began, just like she said. But in my heart, I long for it all to be just one big April Fools. I wish she'd burst out of the dark wood coffin and shout "SURPRISE" at me. Because my Mother, the creator of the seasonal statement I live by - is dead.

I bow my head and watch them lower the coffin down, hope still in my heart. Come on, Mother. I think. Please. Tell me none of this is real, show me you're still alive. But even though I'm only ten with a wild imagination, I know that my Mother is never coming back.

As tears begin to well in my eyes, I try to look back at her. They say I'll look like her when I grow up, mother and daughter sharing the same pale blue eyes and ash blonde hair. She always loved how bold I am as well, how I'd debate for hours and express my opinions both bravely and diplomatically. But now all I can think about is her corpse, silent and still, lying in the coffin and gradually fading away until the Mother I knew is nothing but bones and a skull with blank, empty eye sockets and its mouth wide open, screaming a silent scream.

My Aunt gestures to the wreath in my hand from across the grave and I look down at the sombre posy; made up of Ivy interwoven with crocuses. A strange choice of combination for a wreath, I suppose it's because I chose it. My Mother loved crocuses; she used to call them the candles of hope because they signified the coming of Spring at last, leading the way with their light. And, as I reach my arm up and throw the woven ring of flowers and leaves to land on top of the coffin, I think: Let them lead you now, Mother. Let the crocus candles help you find your way.

I'm not a religious person. But I hope to god that heaven exists.

I withdraw as the gravediggers begin to throw dirt into the grave, starting to bury her at last. I pull my hood up as they do so, not wanting anyone to see my face. I don't have a veil, but the hood on my thick velvet cloak that she gifted me for my birthday just under half a year ago does well to hide my expression.

Unschooled in Science, I'm not quite sure what took my Mother. All I know is she grew thin and frail and developed a wracking cough that brought up blood towards the end. My Grandparents wouldn't take her to a Muggle doctor, so the healers at St. Mungos did all they could. But in the end, they're best was not enough, and my Mother gave up. There were murmurs I picked up among the Muggles, whispers always involving the word 'Tuberculosis' - not that I know what it means. But I intend to find out.

"Mariah." I hear a wheezing, stern voice from my right and look to see my Grandfather approaching, accompanied by my Grandmother. The name he uses makes my heart ache even more. Mariah was my Mother's name, though also my Middle name. My grandparents insist on calling me by it.

"Mariah, we must go now." My grandfather continues, slowing to a halt beside me.

"I - I need to stay." My voice cracks as I tremble.

"No, Mariah. You must come home with us now. What's done is done." My Grandmother says, coming forward to take my hand.

I shake my head, removing my hand from hers. The touch of a familiar human is comforting, but her hand is icy cold, as if blood has never run through it.

"Mariah, your Mother is dead and now she is buried. It is done. Now come." My Grandmother continues to insist, her voice sharper now.

"We have to get you settled in." Adds my Grandfather.

Settled in. As if I am going home. As if I could call the dark, gloomy house they live in a home.

"I'm staying here." I answer in a low voice. "I have to...gather myself."

"There's no use dwelling on the dead." My Grandmother says harshly. "Come now, Mariah."

I don't answer, instead looking back at my Mother's grave, now half-filled in with soil, the coffin no longer visible. I think of home then, as I stare at the ground where I could once see her coffin. Home for me is the little cottage on the outskirts of our village, with its allotment and roses, the inside light and airy, my room in the attic with its small windows and dozens of hidey holes where I could hide my treasures. My father, Peter Fairweather, bought it for my Mother, but she inherited the house deeds when he died nine years ago. People say she died because she never recovered after his death. How romantic. But I believe the real reason behind it were her parents - cold blooded, snobbish individuals who gave her hell after she had me illegitimately. They never forgave her, and they hate me, despite trying to feign affection for their only Granddaughter. And I hate them in return.

They've sold the cottage. They moved her and I in with them when she grew really ill and just sold it off. They knew she was going to die. And though they wept and wailed and mourned for the impending loss of their daughter, they never warned me of what was to come.

I turn around, having been silent as they wait for an answer. My Grandmother regards me impatiently as I look them up and down, inspecting their gaunt, pale faces.

"Mariah, come." My grandmother insists again, as if I am a misbehaving pet dog. But I finish my inspection of my new Guardians and instead turn and walk away, past grave diggers, weaving between the stones around me and heading towards my Father's grave. My parents were not permitted to be buried next to one another.

All I can hear is my Grandparents calling for me as I find my way through the cemetery, though they make no attempt to follow me. However, when I reach my Father's headstone, underneath the silver birch tree, the calls are muted by a different voice in my ear.

For a fleeting moment, something - someone - brushes past me, whispering in my ear before passing me to drift on. I look up to see nothing, yet I feel everything. And I know, as I feel my Mother joining hands with my father and walking away, that they are at peace.

But my peace, it seems, will never be found.