Turning the corner, I enter Main Street and blast some oldies. “I’ll Follow the Sun” by the Beatles plays as I enter the center of town. “Centerfold” may be the newest music played in this car in some time. The music from the 50s and 60s is the only part of my childhood and family I have left, so I gladly wrap myself in a cocoon of British Invasion music and Bubblegum Retro Pop.
Nineteenth-century brick buildings line the widening road. The town square, housing a white gazebo, passes on my right. Two men, Gerald and John, lift bales of hay inside, setting the scene for the fall festivities.
Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I almost forgot about the Scarecrow Contest. Emy and I should build Finchwilliam Darcy and Elizabeak Bennet this weekend.
I’m sure she’ll fight my brilliantly punned creation, like she does every year, asking if we could try something else. She always does that, attempts to change things and get me out of my comfort zone.
But it’s called a comfort zone for a reason, and who doesn’t enjoy being cozy?
There’s enough sadness and change in the world without actively seeking it out.
I pull at my sleeves, passing the old Neal’s Mill. Just the thought of change makes me anxious.
The red structure towers over the square, visible from nearly every angle of Chawton Falls. The familiar rush of the rapids and falls of the Squam River below the cobblestoned bridge drowns out the chaotic whir of my mind.
My heart grows heavier as I pull the car down the winding driveway that leads to the serene cemetery sitting beside a wide, grassy meadow. Fog sits low over the horizon, and images of Mr. Darcy striding toward me in a billowy coat dance in my head.
Throwing the car in park, I undo the binding constraints wound around the sorrow in my heart.
Take a moment every day to remember them and let however you feel out.I read that somewhere, and it works. Allowing myself ten minutes of raw reality means I can carry on for the rest of the day, locking all necessary feelings away in a tidy compartment until my allotted mourning time the next day.
I pop the trunk and fish out the trimmers and brush I store in the car to clean off the grave markers. A wood stove burns nearby, and the smoke delicately wafts over, steadying my breaths with the nostalgic comfort a good wood fire can bring. A few leaves from a nearby tree hug Uncle Eddie’s gravestone.
In fall, all the leaves become flowers, Alouette,he used to whisper.
I pick up an orange frosted leaf, roll the dry stem on the pad of my thumb and stuff it in my pocket, humming to myself as I finish cleaning the rest of the family markers.
Breathing in the sun’s warmth, I sigh. Aunt Camille, Uncle Edouard, my Memere, and their brothers and sisters are all laid out before me. Fourteen in all. Fourteen people who loved and cared for me. Old age released them one by one until it reduced their lives to granite in the ground and a legacy of the love they showered on those around them.
“I miss you all terribly.”
A subtle breeze passes through the cemetery, rustling the leaves. I shiver against the wind and pull my peacoat tightly against me.
“I wore tights out. I swear,” I say defensively, putting the trimmers back in the car and retrieving a blanket. I roll it out in front of my Memere, placing one coffee on her freshly laid marker, and sit cross-legged next to it with my cup, removing theJane Austen Seven Novelsbook tucked underneath my armpit.
I close my eyes, channeling all my energy into my family and letting myself feel and reflect on whatever comes to me.
A soft fire flickers in the wood stove, a pot of ragout simmering on top.
My Memere’s fingers fly freely with a joyful staccato rhythm on her dual-layer organ. Her high, beautiful voice fills the room.
“You sound like Snow White!” a little version of me giggles.
Uncle Edouard, sporting a flat tweed cap, enters the room with his ukelele, dancing around, strumming off-key and off-tempo.
“Edouard,” Memere scolds, the big smile on her face at odds with her stern tone. “Will you quit that racket? It’s not even in tune, heaven-to-Betsy.”
Uncle Edouard shrugs and gathers me up.
“You’ll wreck your hip!” Memere shrieks as I laugh and squirm in my uncle’s arms.
“Oh hush, Ani. I’m not old yet.”
Aunt Camile walks in with chunky black sunglasses shielding her eyes, even though we’re inside. They’re glasses half my aunts and uncles have started to wear. She sits on the couch with the hefty book I currently hold. “Come read to me, love,” she beckons.
My eyes flicker open, and I clear my throat, thick with emotion. That’s quite enough of that.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yes. The letter.” I sip my coffee. The hot liquid warms everything down to my toes.
