Page 85 of A Lifetime of Afters
I smiled. Passionately persistent from birth.
More memories surfaced. Hunter racing up the hill to the carousel, his hand raised in a high five. “Hey, old buddy!”
Old Man Gillie laughing in response as he slapped his hand. “How ya doin’ little buddy?” Even when Hunter towered over him by several inches, the script never altered.
I patted the pony’s chest and came in contact with a metal plate. Going down to my knees, I crawled around to look.
For Hunter. Ride on, little buddy.
I covered my mouth with my hand and sobbed.
He knew. All this time, Old Man Gillie knew. And he grieved in solidarity with us. We weren’t the only ones who missed Hunter’s light.
So bright, even death couldn’t snuff it out. He was in every grain of sand on Crystal Beach. His hoot of victory rang through the air at the top of the bluffs. Our laughter rang out eternally in the wind. His place in my heart throbbed with life because here, in Sage Ridge, he was everywhere.
I pulled the end of my scarf out of my jacket and wiped my face.
Releasing a shuddering breath, I retraced my steps to the beach and walked through my old neighborhood where my dad lived. I thought about stopping but couldn’t bear the unasked questions for which I had no answers.
My walk rivaled Hawk’s strenuous escapes. I reasoned if I exhausted myself, I would sleep and put an end to this awful day.
My eyes filled anew remembering the anguish on Hawk’s face. Telling his truth afforded him a modicum of peace. I fully understood his guilt now, a wound scraped raw by being with me. Would he ever get over it?
Once I reached the river, I understood the need that drove me there.
The bench set directly in my path, where my mother and I always sat, invited me to sit with her again.
Where I loved the beach and the bluffs, Mom loved the river.
“See, Noelle? It’s always changing. It’s never the same two days in a row. That’s life, honey. If I miss my walk one day, I know I’ve missed something changing along the river. I can’t wait to get back. It calls to me.”
She read to me on this bench when I was small.
We picnicked on this bench.
She told me, much to my everlasting horror, about the birds and the bees on that bench.
Don’t you know, you, yourself are made of love? You are love!
The things she said to me, the beauty she poured into our lives. She loved me. Loved Max. Adored my father. She didn’t want to leave him, leave us. And when she neared the end, I held her on that bench as she cried for all she would miss.
I collapsed under the weight of my memories. “I can’t do it, Mom. I can’t take another loss.”
Open your heart or you’ll miss the magic.
Only one person I knew spoke of magic.
You, yourself, are made of magic.
My mother was magic. She taught me how to dream.
“My dreams didn’t take me too far, Mom,” I murmured.
The story isn’t over yet.
How often she said that to us kids whenever something went wrong. Everything was coming back to me.
I pulled my ribbon from my pocket, weaved it through my frozen fingers. Remembered the day I got it.
