For All You Have Left

Chapter Thirty-Five The Grave

I go to the spot that’s etched into my memory — at the end, near the corner. There’s a big oak tree that sits on the other side of the fence. It shades the spot, and it seems only fitting. But when I see the piece of stone jetting up from the earth, I stop cold and just stare at it. I don’t know what else to do. Of anything I’ve ever done in my life, even more so than starting over in a tomorrow without him, this makes me the most terrified. That stone might as well be a ghost.

I stare at it a little longer. I don’t want to look at it, but I force myself to. It still doesn’t seem right that his name should be there, etched in rock under the words, Loving husband, son and brother. And it doesn’t seem right that there’s not much time between those two numbers. Eighteen years. Only eighteen, short, beautiful years. And I think about that little dash that separates those two years, and it’s hard to believe that our life fit into that little space — that all our moments, all our dreams, all our joys, all our laughter, all our tears and all our smiles are held within that little dash. I push back the warm tears as I try to rationalize it. It’s just not possible.

I force myself to walk closer to the stone. It feels like the frost-covered ground is more like wet concrete as my feet, little by little, struggle to take each step. But finally, I reach it, and I slowly kneel down so that I’m at eye level with the carved words. I glance at the dark gray indentions, then quickly turn away and stare at the frozen grass instead as my heart slams hard against my chest. Half of me is saying I can’t do this; I’m not strong enough. The other half says I must. So after a moment, I force my eyes back, and suddenly, I feel my hand moving toward the stone, and soon, my fingers are pressing against the indented letters that make up the word husband.

I’ve been here once — the day I said goodbye to him for the last time. But I’ve never seen the gray stone that bears his name. I finish moving my fingertips over the word, and then I follow the letters in his name, until my eyes fall to a spot below the dates where there’s an inscription. I had requested it be there, but I hadn’t thought about it since then until now. In small letters is the little quote that he might not have gone a day without saying: There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. I wanted it there because the quote is Andrew, because it says what he would say if he could. It says: Don’t cry for me. And now, everyone who passes by here — everyone who never had the chance to meet him — will know who he was.

The quote makes me smile, but it also forces another tear down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and focus on another inscription below the quote. I run my fingertips over each letter in the words: Forever and a day. And when I get to the last letter, my head falls to my knees, and I try to control my heart as it grows ever heavy in my chest. He wrote the words in a tree; I had to make sure they were written in stone. And I had said those words that day — that last day with him — but I had whispered them, and I don’t think he could have heard me over the bike’s engine. I have replayed that moment in my head probably a million times now, but each time now, when I say the words, I shout them. I make sure he hears them.

I feel like sobbing, but I don’t. Instead, I sniffle, swallow the hurt in my throat and wipe my eyes again.

“Andrew,” I whisper.

I watch my breath freeze in the air, and I try to force back the flood of tears that I soon realize I can’t possibly stop from streaming down my cheeks. It’s been years since I’ve said his name out loud — as if he were right in front of me.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me,” I whisper.

I pause and force my lips up, but the smile quickly fades away.

“If I would have known that day was going to be our last day together, I would have held you tighter. I would have kissed you longer.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and just sit there in silence for a moment. I stare at the last inscription. I try not to look at the name above it.

“I’ve met someone,” I whisper, at last. “He’s not as crazy as you.”

I laugh to myself and sniffle some more.

“But he’s just as amazing,” I say, and then I try to smile again through my tears. “You would have liked him.”

I swallow hard, and I just sit there in silence for a while — thinking, letting the hum of the quiet carry me away. I think about our first kiss behind that big hay bale in that dusty hayloft. I think about the way his muscles moved in his arm as he carved our love into that old oak tree. And I think about the way my name looked as if it belonged etched in that black ink onto his heart. And then I remember the look in his eyes when he told me he liked my sundress on our wedding day, and I replay that last, perfect smile that he ever gave me. Then, I take a rock out of one coat pocket and a piece of torn paper from the other. And I allow my eyes to follow over the words on the little page one final time:

I hold the page torn right out of my old diary tightly in my hand. Then, I place it on the ground near the base of the stone, and on top of it, I gently set the rock that, once upon a time, penned our love into eternity.

“I love you, Andrew,” I whisper. “I’ll love you forever…and a day.”

I softly kiss the inside of my fingers and then press them to the hard, cold stone. Then, I take another second and wipe the tears from my eyes before I slowly stand up, inhale a breath of cool air and walk away.