𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨-𝙧.𝙖.𝙗

𝟯𝟯-𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀

JO IS THINKING ABOUT HER MOTHER'S GARDEN. In the summer, it is bountiful, with bright, big green leaves that her mother tends to early in the morning into the afternoons. The fruits are juicy and sweet, and Jo will pick at them lazily as she sits in the sun, studying the fanged geraniums and leaping toadstools. When she was younger, Jo would spend hours with her knees in the dirt, yanking up roots and arguing with her brother over whose turn it was to start degnoming. When she was much younger, her mother would place fragile seeds in the palms of her hand and guide her towards the small holes in the ground she had dug. And Jo would stare, eyes wide as if they would just sprout instantaneously.

Now, the ground is hard and cold, the peaks of dirt frosted over and any trace of leafy greens now buried by the layers of snow that have piled up. Jo pulls the sleeves of her sweater over the tips of her fingers, and she knows that in time, the ice will melt and the seeds will sprout but she is stuck on how desolate and dead and cold it all looks. Jo shudders. She hates the cold.

Jo can see it now, from the window, as she lies on her mother's bed, tucked into her side, Euphemia's hands smoothing out the stray flyaways of Jo's hair. They keep popping back up as soon as Euphemia takes her hand away, and Jo can feel static buzzing through her hair. Jo thinks she should almost be embarrassed for crawling into her mother's bed like a sick, small child. But she's not, she can't even care.

Euphemia's been gentler with her daughter, softer, like Jo is once more a small child with seeds clenched in her small fist. Perhaps she can see the drag to Jo's movement, the twitching of her fingers or the dark bruises that sag under her eyes or maybe as a mother Euphemia just intrinsically knows, but she looks at Jo now like she can see right through her.

Jo can hear the laughter of her father and brother that echoes off the walls and floats through the hallways. James is happy-Lily said yes. To their future home together, to marrying him. Jo missed it all. She feels like she'll blink and before she knows it, there will be little redheaded ankle biters calling her auntie. Jo thinks about it, and her eyes burn. She doesn't know why.

And as if she can feel the way Jo's emotions shift, Euphemia leans down to place a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Aw, Josie," she comforts, and clicks her tongue.

""M alright," Jo swallows, rapidly blinking and trying to make her voice sound as clear as she can.

Euphemia says nothing for a moment, just resumes her petting. She hums, staring ahead of her. "You know, it's much different for you young people now than it was when I was your age. You and your brother have the weight of the world on your shoulders," she sighs. "When I was your age the biggest decision I ever had to make was whether to go out with your father or the Ravenclaw Beater."

Jo lets out a quick snort. The idea of her mother being in love with anyone besides her father is far-fetched and ridiculous enough to break through the thickness she feels in her chest. The love her mother and father have for each other is something Jo's never doubted. It is as much of a concrete fact as it can be, and Jo likes the idea of loving someone so much it becomes undisputable to anyone lucky enough to witness it.

Euphemia continues to run her fingers through Jo's hair, gently and carefully, so her fingers don't get stuck in the tangles of Jo's split ends. "I just don't think it's fair," she laments, pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. "Us old people have made such a muck of the world, and now it seems we're relying on the young ones to clean it up for us."

Jo wiggles in closer. Her mother simplifies it, talking to Jo like she is younger and stupider, but it spreads warmth throughout her. She likes being treated delicately, being coddled, held tightly in the arms of her mother. She likes to feel safe, cozy, shielded from the cold and free from the fear that makes its home in her chest.