Page 94 of The Roads We Follow

I look between the two of them, at the unspoken truths no one says out loud.

Because the truth is, their reunion was little more than a short-lived good-bye.

“It meant the world to her,” Micah confirms.

Mama’s eyes swim with tears, and it pains me to watch her grieve. “And your mama meant a great deal to me.” Her chin quivers. “Out of respect for your family and town, I chose not to attend her memorial service. It didn’t seem right after missing so many years of her life.” She takes in a shuddered breath. “But with your blessing, Micah, I’d like to pay your mother a tribute in the best way I know how, in a place that was special to us both.”

I watch Micah swallow twice before he manages to speak again. “You have it, Luella.”

My mama nods to him gratefully as Cheyenne positions her guitar. She doesn’t wait to be cued, she simply begins to fingerpick the chorus of a song the whole world seems to have memorized. And by the somber expression on all our faces, it’s not lost on any of us that the same song that once began the journey of two best friends in search of their dreams is the same song dedicated to the end of their dreams. A final benediction echoed from the treetops in the same place they’d once plotted their futures together.

Though tears glisten on my mother’s cheeks from the splashes of sunlight cutting through the thick branches above us, the original melody of “Crossing Bridges” never wavers. Neither does her voice. There’s not a note, a breath, a single word sung out of sync or off-key. There are far too many years of practice for Mama to choke under the strain and weight of emotion, and yet it’s the emotion inside her that pours out in every lift and swell of her gift. On the rise and build of the chorus, it’s as if we’ve all disappeared, as if the only person who really matters is the one person who isn’t here.

Cheyenne’s accompaniment is flawless, and just like her Nonnie, her eyes are closed as if in prayer, tears trickling down her cheeks. My niece never knew this woman her grandmother once referred to assister,and yet her sorrow is real. Hattie’s lips tremble as shesilently mouths the lyrics while Adele stares into a distance beyond what our human eyes can see. On the last time through the chorus, Micah folds my hand into his, and it’s then my tears spill over. Not only for the woman whose name I bear, but for the children, the husband, the friends, the life she left behind.

This bridge can hold us both / Our comings and our goings

It’s steady and secure / Where water’s always flowing

We can take it on together / The way we’ve always done

Not afraid of looking back / Not afraid of what’s to come

There’s more for us to find / Let go of what’s been lost

As long as we’re together / This bridge is ours to cross

It’s quiet for nearly a minute after Mama stops singing, and I can’t find the off switch to the overflow of emotion welling inside me. My heart thuds inside my chest, and my palms grow damp. I can’t seem to pinpoint the source of this new ache inside me. All I know is that I want it to stop.

I sense Mama is about to say something to conclude our time together when, instead, Adele turns toward her daughter. “I never thought I would enjoy listening to that song again after all the cover bands and remixes I’ve been forced to hear this last year. But you two—you and Mama together—you have something special.”

With muted approvals, the rest of us concur.

“I also think,” Adele goes on, “if it’s okay with your Nonnie, you two should consider performing this song together onstage at the festival.”

Cheyenne’s eyebrows lift in question as she looks from her mother to her grandmother, who smiles through her sorrow.

“I’d be honored, darling girl. And I think if Lynn were here to ask, she would feel the same.”

Cheyenne moves a trembling hand to her mouth, obviously too overcome for words.

“I remember your mother well, Micah,” Adele says as she faceshim. “She smelled like lavender and honey. I always thought it was such a comforting scent. It’s the same one I use in my home.”

I catch sight of Cheyenne’s soft smile. “I never knew that’s why you bought it.”

“I never told you,” Adele admits softly. “Lynn was my first experience with loss as a child, and I missed her very much after she left.”

“Me too,” Hattie says, wiping under her eyes. “I can still remember the last time she tucked me into bed. It was the last time she read to me, too. I can’t believe it’s almost been thirty years since that night.”

“I don’t believe love and loss are limited by the boundaries of time,” Mama says. “Scripture says that in heaven we’ll know love in full, but loss we’ll never know again.”

At this uncharacteristically open conversation between my family members, I press in closer to Micah, hoping to share in his steadiness and slow this incessant rhythm in my chest. But instead, the ache I felt at the ending of Mama’s song has seeped into my bones. As much as I’d want to label it as grief, the tension inside me is different than with loss. Yet somehow it feels just as dire.

Micah’s face remains stoic as the breeze picks up and skitters pine needles along the dirt trails beside us.

“Thank you all for sharing your memories of her with me,” he says. “I won’t forget this.”

“It’s us who should be thanking you for sharing her with us.” Mama steps forward and wraps her arms around him. “You’ve brought the best parts of her with you.”

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