“Are you sure?” Willow asks. “If you stick around long enough, we might get to see this guy own a rundown inn.”
“Yeah, I’m beat.” Lindsey forces a smile. “But I’ll see y’all bright and early.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” I say. “Get some rest.”
She leans down to kiss my cheek. “G’night.”
A chorus of “good night” follows her as she leaves the room.
“I wonder what facial hair he’ll have in the next one,” Rose says. “A goatee? Maybe a Tom Selleck mustache?”
And they’re off on another tangent, the goat farmer and the bakery owner forgotten. I make a concerted effort to nod at appropriate intervals and contribute an occasionaluh-huh, but my heart is with my eldest daughter, who’s climbing the stairs to her childhood bedroom.
Her footfalls on the steps grow farther and farther away, until they disappear. The sound used to bring me comfort because I was once naive enough to believe that as long as my children were close, I could protect them from anything.
In my own grief and desire to keep things the way they were, I lost sight of what matters: the people I love that are still here. Lindsey asked me what she should do when we were in that hospital bathroom, and I failed her. I told her about the cost of love, but I didn’t tell her about the reward. Maybe because I’ve been so focused on everything I was missing that I lost sight of what I have.
Everything Istillhave.
My sister, my beautiful children and grandchildren, and a life well-loved.
But there’s something else too. Ron’s face and kind smile fills my mind, warming me from the inside.
There’s a new story waiting to be written, if I can just be brave enough to grab a pen.
I rise justbefore the sun on Christmas morning, get dressed, and tiptoe downstairs so as not to wake anyone while I brew the first of many pots of coffee. Normally, I’d be starting the French toast casserole we have for breakfast every year and prepping the sides and Christmas dinner. I’d be in a tizzy all day to make sure everything is perfect. But not today.
Today, I’ve decided, will be different.
I fill a travel mug with coffee and shrug on my coat before grabbing my purse and keys from the kitchen counter. Frigid air slaps me in the face when I step out into the dawn and trudge toward my car. The leather seats are so cold, they send chillsthrough my body, but I don’t have time to let it warm up. I want to get out of here as inconspicuously as possible.
Thankfully, the drive is short. It’s not one I’ve made in years, but I know it with the intimacy of a worn love letter, the ink faded from decades of retracing the words with my fingers.
When I arrive at Harpeth Hills Memory Gardens, I drive up the winding path that leads to where Henry is waiting for me. We bought our plots in our late thirties, back when the idea of needing them seemed eons away. We told the guy at the funeral home we liked the magnolia trees along the back of the property, and when he said he had two plots together beneath one of the sprawling giants, we bought them and promptly put the whole thing out of our minds.
I pull to a stop a few yards away and climb out of the car with my coffee, grabbing a blanket from the trunk before making the rest of the journey on foot. Henry insisted I keep one there in case of emergency after the Mid-South got hit with a massive ice storm in the late nineties. He always thought of things like that.
The air is still and peaceful, other than the light wind rustling against the trees and the echo of tires on asphalt in the distance from the occasional car passing along the highway. The sun is rising over the tree line, casting a golden glow over the headstones. I never considered cemeteries to be anything but sad, but right now, this place is beautiful.
“You’ve got a nice view here.” The warmth of my breath fogs up my glasses as I approach Henry’s resting place. With one hand, I wrap the thick blanket around me and sit, grateful to have the extra layer of protection from the frosty ground.
I take a long pull from my coffee. The sight of Henry’s marker still makes my stomach sink. It’s hard to comprehend how a life so vibrant can be reduced to a simple inscription:
Loving Husband, Father, and Friend to All Animals.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” I say. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit. It’s still hard for me, and if I don’t come, I can play these mind games with myself and pretend you’re somewhere else, away at one of those vet med conferences you used to speak at. That’s a lot easier than accepting that you’re really gone.”
“I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of things,” I admit. “Rose told me after Thanksgiving that celebrating the holidays with me wasn’t fun anymore, and I think she’s right. I’ve been hanging on to you so tight, I didn’t leave room for, well, anything else. All I’ve managed to do is make myself and everyone around me miserable. I couldn’t see it before, or maybe I just didn’t want to.”
I slide my thumb over the edge of my mug and sigh.
“I’m worried about Lindsey,” I say. “She met someone. You’d like him. He’s everything you ever wanted for her. I think she was starting to feel something for him, but she got scared and ended things. She chose feeling safe over being loved.”
I place my hand on the cold bronze stone bearing my husband’s name, as though maybe wherever he is, he’ll feel it.
“We both know safety is an illusion, don’t we?” Tears brim my eyes, and I place my cup on the ground so I can remove my glasses and dab beneath my lashes. “We were supposed to have many more years together, you and me. In fact, I believe I was promised forever, and now, here we are. But how lucky were we to find someone we loved so much that even forever wouldn’t have been long enough?”
God, we were so lucky. I sniff, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.
