I’ve got blisters across my palms, reddish and peeling, because they’re in the process of healing. I hadn’t even noticed them until now, although it’s clear they’ve been there for a while.
“You’ve been chopping wood,” Dare offers, and I cringe. I cringe because I know why.
“That was Finn’s job,” I say aloud. “I must’ve… I must’ve thought I was Finn. And that my dad would need wood when we went away to college.”
Dare nods solemnly in agreement and I still can’t figure out why he would stay with me. I’m such a mess.
“It’s like my mind was a rope, splintering and unraveling until it was hanging by a thread.”
Dare shakes his head and pulls me close again.
“You needed time to process what happened. That’s all.”
“I’m still not ready.” My voice breaks at the thought of moving on without Finn.
“I know.”
Four more days pass before I bring it up again. Four days of my father and Dare watching me for signs that I’m cracking, four days of rain and sleep and silence.
Four days of mourning.
Four days of having it hang over my head until one morning, I’ve had it.
“I’ve got to do it today,” I decide at breakfast. Dare immediately stands up.
“Ok.”
I ride on the back of his back on the way to the cemetery, my face pressed against his strong back. I close my eyes and inhale the fresh air, absorbing the sunshine, feeling the warmth.
Warmth = Life.
We pull to a stop outside the gates and Dare kills the motor, careful to respect the sacred grounds of the burial place.
“It’s so odd,” I tell him as we walk through the manicured grounds, stepping around stones. “I remembered my mother’s funeral, but I didn’t remember a thing about Finn’s. We had a joint funeral, but my mind blocked out anything that had to do with Finn. But I remember it now. You were there. I saw your face. You were in the back.”
At that point, I didn’t even remember him. God.
Dare squeezes my hand and we walk straight to the back, straight to the white marble headstones that mark the ground.
I look at my mother’s first, because even though it’s gut-wrenching, it’s easier.
LAURA PRICE. I trace the name with my finger, sinking to my knees.
“I’m sorry, mom,” I whisper to her. “I’m so sorry I called. I’m so sorry you answered. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you.”
I kiss my fingers and press them to the stone, and then I do the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.
I turn and say goodbye to my brother.
My Finn.
Finn’s memorial stone is white and glows in the late afternoon sun. The writing on it brings tears to my eyes, because I recognize it immediately….it’s very similar to what Mark Twain had inscribed on his daughter’s stone.
The words on Finn’s blur as tears fill my eyes once again, or still.
Good night, sweet Finn. Good night, good night.
I tear up for a thousand reasons, and one of them is my dad. He must’ve paid attention to me over the years after all, because I’d told him once how heart-wrenching and beautiful I thought this particular epitaph was. And when it was time to pick Finn’s stone, I wasn’t in a position to help.