The day before I was set to leave, I arranged with the boy to have him drive me to visit my mother. I hesitated to ask him, but I had no other source of transportation; the old neighbour I usually got a ride with was away on holiday. When he arrived at my cafe, he brought a bouquet of anemones with him. With experienced hands, he carefully arranged the flowers among the daisies I had already placed in a wicker basket. 

"I hope she likes them," he said quietly. I looked at them, and began to cry.

The car ride to the gravesite was uneventful, and mostly silent. I only spoke to give him instructions and after a few hours, we arrived at the foot of the path. He offered to carry the basket, and I declined. We both sounded so formal; our careful sentences seemed out of place on a path surrounded by wilderness, and I cringed. Slowly, we made our way through the dense forest and soon reached a blockade.

“Is there another path?” the boy asked, assessing the fallen tree. He tried to push it, but his efforts were futile.

“I don’t think so,” I said, twisting the handle of the basket. “Not many people come here.” The boy pushed himself onto the trunk and winced as he scratched himself on a few branches. Lithely, he jumped off, and I heard him land on the other side.

“It’s safe to climb over,” he called. Cautiously, I found a few footholds in the rough bark of the tree and attempted to scale the thick trunk. It wasn’t as simple as the boy had made it seem; the basket in my hand hindered my progress and I lacked his long legs.

“Do you need help?” he asked. I could see his face, peering up at me in concern.

“I can’t jump down,” I admitted, staring at the mass of branches below me. “How did you get down?”

“Just jump hard,” he said. He made it sound so easy, that for a moment, I believed him. In that moment of folly, I jumped. I landed and lost my balance on a loose stone. In order to save my basket, I sacrificed my ankle.

“Are you okay?” the boy asked, hovering over me. I sat up and felt my ankle.

“It’s fine,” I lied, tenderly touching the throbbing bulge.

“I can carry you,” he said.

“It’s fine,” I insisted, standing up. I nearly fell over, but my need to prove my point held me up. “I can walk.”

“Just let me help,” he argued, steadying me. “For once in your life, let someone take care of you.” I didn’t say anything, but I leaned against him.

“Alright,” I said, eyes closed. “You can carry me on the way down. Just let me walk up by myself.”

The reproachful look in his eyes told me he didn’t like my compromise. Brusquely, he tugged the basket from my hands and started to walk.

I needed my mother to hear my footsteps.