Page 148 of What Should Have Been Ours

The silence is thick, heavy with grief and love, and sorrow until the first sniffles start breaking through. Then, like a chain reaction, the entire room is crying.

I press my hand over my mouth, my shoulders shaking as silent tears stream down my cheeks.

Cam would have been so proud.

Are you proud, baby?

* * *

The drive to the cemetery feels unreal. Like it shouldn’t be happening. It’s getting too close to the last step in our goodbye.

The world outside the window moves in slow motion. Buildings and cars and life passing by as if today is just another ordinary day for everyone else.

But for me, it isn’t.

For me, the world has ended.

It ended ten days ago when Cam took his last breath.

I’m sitting in the back of the hearse, watching the casket in front of me, my fingers gripping my dress so tightly that my knuckles turn white. The hum of the engine is distant, muffled by the storm inside my mind. My mom sits beside me, her hand resting over mine, though I barely feel it. I barely feel anything except the ache settling deeper into my bones.

The car slows as we pull into the cemetery, and I stare out at the rows of headstones stretching across the land. The sky is painted with streaks of orange and pink. It’s all too beautiful for a day like this.

It’s gotta be him, the one making it all so beautiful.

People are already waiting, standing near the burial site—extended family, old friends, doctors and nurses from the hospital, people who loved him, people whose lives he touched.

I don’t move at first. Because the second I step out of this car, the second I walk toward the grave…it will finally be real.

I will have to bury him.

I will have to leave him here.

Wes is the first to move. He turns, looking at me, his eyes filled with his own pain, and aithout a word, he steps out of the car, walking around to open my door. He doesn’t say anything as he offers his hand.

I take it, and together, we step out into the fading light.

The ceremony is small and intimate. People speak, their voices carrying across the quiet cemetery. They tell stories. They share memories. They say his name, smiling every time they think about him, and then crying when the reality hits all over again.

Cam’s mother goes next, and her voice wavers with grief. She talks about his childhood, of his contagious laughter, of the way he used to run through the yard barefoot, messy and full of life.

That part never changed.

A nurse from the hospital talks about the way he cared for his patients, how he made them feel safe, and how he gave them hope even in their darkest moments.

Wes stands beside me the entire time, silent, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then, they begin to lower the casket. The sound of it settling into the earth is quiet and deafening. A finality that cracks something open inside of me.

I take a step forward.

One step closer to goodbye.

My legs feel weak, unsteady, like they might give out beneath me. But I keep going. And when I reach the casket, I sink to my knees, my fingers trembling as I reach out and press my hand against the wood.

It’s cold.

Too cold.