Page 78 of Mourner for Hire
I cock my head in her direction.
“Is this one of those boundary moments?”
I smile at her. “Look at you, learning new things in the afterlife!”
She tosses her head back and laughs, continuing our trek up to the peak.
As we move up the trail, she points out every plant and flower and tells me the name of eachand whether or not it’s poisonous. She’s also keen on telling me how much she loves it here. In these woods. In this town. On this coast.
I offer muted responses but mostly listen to her endless ramblings.
By the time I reach the summit, the trees have thinned, and my back is damp with sweat. I peel my backpack off of me as we reach the top.
“Well, you didn’t die. I guess I’ll leave you to it,” Annabelle says. “See you at the house.”
“Not today.”
“Right.” She winks and gives me two thumbs up before disappearing in the woods.
I spin back around and take in the view. The top of the hill is a flat boulder that drops off on the western side to reveal the bright blue ocean roaring under a misty sky. The Oregon coast is jagged, moving and shifting with every push and pull of the ocean. Giant rock formations create coves and dimension as far as the eye can see.
The beauty of the terrain blows my mind no matter how many times I see it. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but my first thought upon looking out at the vast ocean is how beautiful this hike would be at sunset.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, the sun makes an appearance, cutting through the pine trees and illuminating the ocean and every section of beach and rocks below.
I was wrong.
The direction of this cliff perfectly hits every edge and plane, making the world below come alive.
I hold onto the moment, remembering the letter I’m supposed to write. I find a seat on a rock and start writing.
Dear Mom,
When I was in therapy last year, my therapist told me to list out foods, sights, sounds, sayings, and people from my childhood and begin the list by saying I am.
I haven’t been able to do it.
Every memory is fuzzy, incomplete, or entirely nonexistent. What foods did we eat? Where did we go? What music did we listen to? I don’t know. It was all stolen on the day of the accident.
So he told me to do it with things I know now. I’m holding onto the identity of who I am because as much as I desperately want to know you and remember you, I can’t.
I remember I love you.
I remember I was safe with you.
I remember that I miss you.
So let me tell you who I am after you left. I am TV dinners and funeral cookies. I am a gravestone without a meaning. I am condolences and the sound of Amazing Grace played on a church organ. I am tears on a black veil. I am a lover of people. I seem to be hated by one.
I am a woman searching for her memory while learning to be okay without it.
I am your daughter and I love you.
Vada
I gently fold the letter and stuff it in an envelope then shove it in the rusted mailbox, covered in scribbles of hearts and initials. My heart flutters at the promises these couples make with a stupid permanent marker. I revel in the fact that I know how they must have felt, entwining their initials in a lopsided heart, thinking it meant forever.
I run my fingers over the names and initials.
