Page 27 of The Choices I've Made
As the music finished and Reverend Brown stepped up to the pulpit, I felt someone slide in next to me. Molly didn’t say a single word as she took her seat beside me. She simply stared straight ahead, doing her best to ignore me as the reverend began to speak. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I just followed her lead, giving my attention to the front of the church.
The reverend spoke of my father’s service and dedication to the community, his charity work, and his love for Jesus. He mentioned the deep devotion he’d had for his late wife and how proud he had been to see his son following in his footsteps.
“May he find his everlasting peace with the heavenly father,” he said as a final thought.
The church echoed with their amens.
It was a nice service with people from all over speaking of his accomplishments and his love for the island.
At the end, I sat, unmoved and rigid. As the music began, Molly rose, faltering for a brief second, and then she was gone without a word. I didn’t stay after that. I knew I should have, but in doing so, I would have had to endure the masses of people ready to offer up their words of condolence.
And I simply wasn’t ready for that yet.
So, instead, I snuck out the back while the little old ladies from the congregation rushed around, preparing the potluck that was to follow.
Hauling ass to my car, I revved the engine, and I drove.
I drove from one edge of the island to the other and then back again until, finally, I made my way up the familiar street. The one I’d memorized after years and years of walking down its dusty trail. I knew exactly how many trees lined each side. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d ridden my bike up and down it during the sweltering summers while my father worked up the road.
Pulling into the driveway, I took a moment to look up at it.
Nothing had changed since I said good-bye. Same blue paint my mother had spent weeks agonizing over, determined to pick the perfect color.
“I want it to look like the sky, Jake. Help me find the sky.”
Being all of five years old, I’d happily pointed up, and she’d laughed and held me close. In the end, she’d done it because the house truly looked as blue as the horizon.
But, like all things, the years had taken its toll on it. And what had once been a bright, vibrant color had now faded into something less than ideal.
Stepping out of the car, I dragged my feet, not wanting to enter, knowing I had somewhere else to visit before I could do so. Veering to the left, I entered the small garden my mother had tended. To my surprise, it was just as full and green as the day she’d left us.
“At least you got one thing right, Dad,” I murmured, grateful for the respect he’d given this place. No doubt our next-door neighbor was to thank for this.
As I walked on, I found it.
My mother’s memorial.
It had weathered some since I was last here, but I could still see her name as clearly as the day it had been installed.
Maggie Jameson.
Kneeling, I brushed the front of the large boulder, feeling the grit of dirt beneath my fingers as I traced each letter, remembering the day we carved them.
It was the only thing my father and I had agreed on—making sure her memory lived on in this garden.
We’d spent days chiseling each letter with painstaking precision.
And when it was finished, we released her ashes into the wind, spreading them amongst the flowers she’d loved so much. It was the last time I’d been in this place.
“Looking good, Ma,” I said, fidgeting with a small flower that had been placed next to her name.
I wasn’t sure what else to say. I hadn’t made it a habit to speak to the dead. Usually, I was doing my damnedest to keep them alive.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the church, young man?”
The familiar voice brought a smile to my face as I turned.
“Heard the ladies made a real nice spread. And you look like you could use a little homecoming.”
