Page 88 of A Bittersweet Summer

I smile then, softly.I love you, I think.

And I know it to be true.

I smooth the black blouse down as I stare in the mirror.

For the last two weeks, I’ve stayed in the farmhouse. Rosemary hasn’t been back to her parents, but neither of us has minded, and I’ve tried to return to working on the farm. The manual labor feels good. Even in my grief, the sunshine feeds my soul.

I get a lot of time to think out there, recall the memories and lessons I’ve learned from my time growing up with August. It’s been healing.

“You ready?” Wes asks, and I turn to see him standing in a black dress shirt and black slacks.

“As ready as I can be.” I offer a wan smile, and we descend the stairs to find Rosemary with a cup of coffee in hand. She pushes it toward me, and I gladly accept.

“I hope I can get through this,” I say before taking a sip. “The speaking part,” I clarify. “I don’t want to end up crying, so you guys can’t cry.”

“You got it, Boss,” Wes says, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Rosemary’s eyes already look glassy as she stares at me. “No promises,” she says.

When we get to the church, I’m greeted by people I haven’t seen in years. Family members we’ve lost touch with, friends from high school who’d messaged me following August’s passing.

It’s overwhelming.

When I see Ellis and Lennon, some of the overwhelm ceases. “You didn’t have to come,” I say as Ellis pulls me into a hug. “You’re getting married next week. This is hardly an appropriate pre-wedding activity.”

“I know you’re supposed to say that,” Ellis says, “But it reallyisa stupid thing to say.”

Lennon chuckles softly.

We take our seats toward the front, where Wes clutches my hand the entire time. I can see him look in my direction periodically, checking in to make sure I’m still breathing, most likely.

And I am.

There is an undercurrent of sadness, but I haven’t completely lost myself to it. I’m sure there will be more to come, but for now, I am just grateful.

Where my sadness flows like the water, Wes’s presence has kept me from being swept up by the current. He holds firm. He’s the break in the clouds where the sun can leak through—a bright star in a never-ending night.

“Next, we offer remembrances.”

The wooden pew creaks when I stand and make my way to the podium, my stomach a flurry of nerves. I’ve practiced this speech—I’m proud of it, but I don’t know if I can deliver what needs to be said without emotion clogging my throat.

With shaking hands, I clutch the paper and begin to read.

“In times like these, we often focus on the positive,” I begin. “And for my introduction, I will not be doing that. I ask, however, that you trust me in this.

“My brother struggled with his health for what feels like his entire life. It was a heavy weight on our family—a burden none of us truly wished to carry. I remember all through my childhood, how the stress of Gus’s illness seemed to tear us at the seams. And I still bear the scars of that.

“But in my memories of the difficulty, I have spent the last two weeks reflecting on all the things that brought Gus tremendous joy—the things, big and small, that seemed to pull him up out of the pit.”

When I look up, I catch Wesley’s encouraging gaze, the gaze of a man who helped carry me through, who is still carrying me in more ways than he realizes. There is peace in sharing pain with others. It’s difficult to feel alone when he cares so damn much. He’s checked on me constantly—been there. And even as I stand on the stage, he still looks at me as if it were the most natural thing—as if there was nothing else he’d rather do.

My voice shakes as I spill memories and facts about my brother, emotion so thick, I keep thinking I won’t make it to the end of my speech.

But I do.

“As I look back on my brother’s life, an important lesson stood out to me. Sadness, even the kind my brother grappled with so wholly, cannot exist without joy.

“As the moon does not exist without the sun, nor do valleys exist without mountains, nor spring without the autumn. We would not know such deep sadness at his loss without the equally joyous gift of what it was to know him.