The city was melting. Not literally, of course, but it felt that way as the heat shimmered off the pavement, distorting the horizon like a funhouse mirror. Even the pigeons looked miserable, their wings drooping as they huddled in the scant shade of wilting trees.
Ethan stood at the window, watching a world too hot to touch. His phone buzzed incessantly on the coffee table, each vibration a reminder of obligations he couldn’t meet. Family. Expectations. A ceremony he should attend but couldn’t reach.
“Unprecedented heat wave grounds all flights,” the news ticker on his muted TV proclaimed. As if he needed the reminder.
His cat, a usually aloof creature, had abandoned all pretense of dignity. She sprawled on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, one paw stretched out as if reaching for relief. Ethan envied her adaptability.
With a sigh, he turned from the window and faced the cluttered expanse of his apartment. If he couldn’t be where he was supposed to be, perhaps he could do what she would have wanted him to do.
She always said a clean home was a balm for a troubled mind.
He started with the dishes, a Jenga tower of porcelain and frustration in the sink. As he scrubbed, he remembered her hands, always smelling faintly of lemon and lavender. How she’d hum as she worked, some half-remembered tune from her youth.
The floors came next. Each sweep of the mop was a meditation, a quiet conversation with memory. He could almost hear her laughter, see the quirk of her eyebrow as she’d tease him about the dust bunnies under the couch.
“They’re not pets, you know,” she’d say, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
Hours passed, marked only by the gradual transformation of chaos into order. As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of flame, Ethan looked around at his now-spotless home. It wasn’t the same as being there, wasn’t the same as saying goodbye properly. But it was something.
He coaxed his cat from her tile sanctuary and stepped out onto the small balcony. The heat still pressed close, but the edge had dulled. In a nearby park, he could see people emerging, drawn out by the promise of a cooler evening.
A small pot of resilient herbs sat on the balcony railing, forgotten until now. Basil and thyme, struggling but alive. She had always loved growing things, coaxing life from the smallest spaces.
Ethan plucked a sprig of basil, rubbing it between his fingers. The scent rose, sharp and green, a counterpoint to the heavy air. His cat wound around his ankles, her curiosity finally overcoming her heat-induced lethargy.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, to the cat, to himself, to the memory that hung in the air as tangible as the humidity. “We’ll do better tomorrow.”
As twilight deepened, Ethan remained on the balcony, the herb pot cradled in his lap. He couldn’t be where tradition dictated, couldn’t follow the script of mourning as written. But here, in this moment, with the scent of basil rising and the distant sound of life resuming in the park below, he found his own way to say goodbye.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what others expected. But as the first stars began to flicker in the deepening sky, Ethan felt a sense of peace settle over him. Tomorrow would come, with its heat and its challenges. But for now, in this moment of remembrance and quiet industry, he had found his way to honor her memory.
The cat purred softly, a vibration against his leg. Life, insisting on itself even in the face of loss and stifling heat. Ethan smiled, just a little, and whispered to the night:
“See you in the sweet herbs and clean floors, Mom. In every moment I remember to care for the small things. That’s where I’ll find you now.”
