Far From You

Epilogue

On my eighteenth birthday, I drive to the cemetery at dusk. It takes me a while to find her; I trek across wet grass, weaving between headstones and angel statues to a shady, secluded spot.

It’s plain, polished gray marble with white engraved letters:

Mina Elizabeth Bishop

Beloved Daughter and Sister

I wish this could be like in the movies. That I was the type of person who could reach out and trace the letters of her name and feel peaceful. I wish I could speak to this hunk of marble like it was her, feel comforted that her body is six feet below, believe that her spirit is watching from above.

But I’m not that girl. I never was. Not before or after or now. I can live with this knowledge—a simple gift to myself, quiet acceptance of who I’m becoming from the pieces that remain.

I kneel down next to her and pull the string of solar ­Christmas lights out of my bag. I drape them on her headstone, trailing the strands down both sides of her grave.

I stay until nightfall, watching the lights begin to twinkle. My hand rests on the ground above her. When I get up, my fingers linger in the grass.

I walk to my car and never once do I look back.

Mina’s night-lights will endure. Year after year, Trev will replace them when they dim. And I know that someday, when I’m ready to come home, they’ll light my way.