The Scent of Jasmine

The house was silent, but not empty. It had been a week since my mother passed away, yet every room still whispered her presence. The jasmine-scented candles she loved were still on the windowsill, unlit now, but their fragrance remained — faint, like the echo of her laughter.

I hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not when they lowered her into the ground, not when I placed a white rose on her casket. But standing in her kitchen, the sunlight catching the dust in the air like tiny stars, I felt the tears finally come.

Mom was a quiet woman, but not distant. Her love was in the small things — in the neatly ironed shirts I wore to school, in the midnight snacks she’d leave when I studied late, in the way she’d hum old Pashto lullabies when she thought no one was listening. She didn’t say “I love you” often. She showed it instead.

When I was a child, I believed she had a kind of magic. No matter how loud the world was, her presence made it still. Her hands, worn from years of washing, cooking, cleaning — they were the softest place I knew. She was always there, like the moon in the night sky, sometimes full and bright, sometimes just a sliver, but always there.

It was strange being in her house without her. The photo frames on the wall now felt like relics. One in particular caught my eye — it was a picture of us on the beach, me at ten years old, grinning wildly, and her, laughing, holding a giant straw hat to keep it from flying away. That day she taught me to swim. I was terrified, sure I would sink. But she held me up, whispering, “I won’t let go.” And she didn’t. Not then, not ever.

On the living room table, I found a letter. My name written in her familiar, careful script. My heart caught in my throat as I opened it.

My dearest child,

If you are reading this, it means I’m no longer there to hold your hand. But don’t worry — I am not far.

You’ve always been strong, even when you didn’t believe it. I’ve watched you grow, stumble, rise again. You have your father’s stubborn heart, but you carry my softness too. Use both. This world needs more people who can be fierce and kind at the same time.

I may not be around to remind you to eat or wear your sweater when it’s cold, but I hope my voice still echoes in your heart. If ever the world becomes too much, sit under the old cherry tree in the garden. I planted it for you when you were born. That tree grew as you did, and like me, it will always stand quietly beside you.

Please remember to forgive easily, love loudly, and never be ashamed of your tears. They are not weakness — they are proof of your courage to feel deeply.

And every time you smell jasmine, know that I am near.

With all my love,

Mom

I folded the letter with trembling fingers. That was when the grief truly hit — not like a wave, but like a tide rising slowly, gently, until I was drowning in it. But within that pain was something else — warmth. She had left me one last hug, in ink and paper.

I spent the rest of the day in her garden, beneath the cherry tree she had planted. Its branches were full of green leaves, its trunk strong and wide. I leaned against it and closed my eyes. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine, and for a moment, I could almost hear her voice again.

“I won’t let go,” she had said once. And now, even in her absence, I realized she hadn’t.

Her love, quiet and steadfast, was woven into everything. In the creak of the wooden floor, in the softness of her worn-out chair, in the garden she so tenderly cared for.

Grief, I learned, is just another form of love — one that lingers, long after the person is gone. And in that love, my mother still lived