Page 50 of A Lot Like Lavender

She smiles wide and keeps going. “You’re alive, Emory.” Holding out her hands, palms up, she turns in a circle, twirling in her favorite pink Converse across tall, green grass. “By some miracle, you lived. It felt impossible, but you kept going, and you get to be alive in this beautiful place, and I just wish you could see yourself and your accomplishments the way I see them. The way I see you.

“You’re my hero, Em. And I would have done just about anything to make sure you kept this land, if that’s what you wanted to do. Or if there’s a new, better dream out there you’re desperate for, let me cheer you on while you go after it.”

I pull her into my arms, and just as quickly, we’re crying. I apologize, and she does, too. Which is ridiculous, so I tell her so. She tells me to hush and to do whatever I have to not to sell the land. Molly joins us, grabbing our waists, and is soon followed by Lola, who manages to wrap both her perfect toddler arms around our legs, squeezing tight. The men join us, and again… it's weird how unweird it all is.

“I will never understand you two,” Jack says, kissing my sister’s temple then winking at me as he joins the intimate circle. He may not understand us, but he always seems to know exactly what my sister needs.

Dinah snuggles into him. “We know.”

Jordan’s strong hands find their home at the base of my neck, a solid weight anchoring my bare feet into the earth I love so much. It breaks my heart, actually. But it’s a problem for tomorrow. One I know I won’t escape when my sister’s eyes positively glow with amusement taking in the sight of Jordan’s thumb running soft lines up and down my neck.

A gentle breeze floats around us. The sounds of the leaves rustling through the trees brings me to tears. This is the time. The perfect spot. The people I love surrounding me.

“I think I’m ready.” A confession to far more than any of them could even know.

Taking Molly by the hand, I lead her to where she and Jordan tied an “It’s Party Time” balloon to a large rock on the riverbank. The small urn waits beside it, and when I pick it up, cradling it in my arms for the last time, that jar feels heavier than it ever has.

Molly’s hand squeezes mine. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, kiddo. So, so much.” I curl the urn closer to my chest. “And your dad loved you before we even knew your name. I’m sorry you never knew him. That you don’t get to hear him laugh or watch his favorite shows or have him walk you down the aisle one day, but…” I choke back emotion but can’t fight the hot spill of tears down my face as I make the same vow to my daughter that I did on the day she was born. The one I haven’t been as faithful to as I would have hoped then. “I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make sure you know the kind of man he was and how proud you would have made him if he were here.”

She nods and follows as I take a step closer to the water. “I love you, James,” I whisper into lavender-scented wind and open the lid. “I’ll always love you.”

With my toes touching the water, my face turned towards my daughter’s, and the people we love most nearby, I truly say, “goodbye.”

16

DUST TO DUST

THE CIVIL WARS

JORDAN

There are a couple of considerations to make when spreading a loved one’s remains. Such as: Who will you share that sacred time with? Are there witnesses? What’s the projected wind force and direction as you open the lid? Where are you located in proximity to said remains?

I blame the wind and Mrs. Cotten, who screams, “Hey, y’all!” from down the stream just as Emory opens the lid to James’ urn, startling her and thereby catching those remains in the huge gust of wind that passes through at the exact moment of release.

Suddenly, all of us are caught in a storm of ash particles, frantically wiping them from our clothes and sweaty skin, dusting it from our hair, and in Dinah’s case, dry heaving onto the ground. Leave it to my best friend, in a last hurrah, to have one final prank on his bride. At first I think Emory might be crying—and who could blame her—as she rests her hands on her knees, shoulders silently shaking. But then,catching her breath, Emory lifts herself upright, cheeks tearstained and laughter in her eyes.

It’s a really weird time to find her completely breathtaking, but I do.

“Is that drugs you’re dumpin’ in the river?” Mrs. Cotten’s shrill voice grows closer as she races down the shoreline as quickly as her seventy-plus years will take her, dragging Veronica and Mr. Cotten with her. “Michael, I think they’re using drugs!”

“We aren’t using drugs.” Emory wipes her eyes then takes a good look at Molly, who’s no worse for wear and has abandoned the chaos completely in favor of skipping more rocks with her cousin.

Mrs. Cotten shakes her finger at us, coming right up to the dumping ground, where Veronica begins sniffing the site for evidence—while the real crime here today is the fact that the dog is dressed in a yellow tutu, a doggie tee that reads, “Your Pine-ness,” and is wearing a crown looped over her ears. “You all were tryin’ to get rid of those road drugs. You oughta be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jack actually rolls his eyes, correcting her. “Street drugs, Mrs. Cotten.”

“Oh, don’t you sass me, young man.” She points her finger at him, but he continues running a soothing hand over his wife's back. “I know what I saw. Right, Michael? Plus, you’ve got it right there in your beard.”

Dinah heaves again. Jack swipes the substance in question from the scruff on his face.

Mr. Cotten nods, wordlessly, in a matching pineapple shirt with “Lookin’ Pine” printed across his chest. Another victim.

“Mrs. Cotten, it wasn’t drugs,” Emory says, tucking herloose T-shirt in the front of her jeans, presentable to make her case. “It was my husband.”

Dinah gags again.