Page 65 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
We discovered something today. Something so… ahh! This is it, my path to acclamation.
I reach for the rest of the journals. The entries end around the time of my birth. I rip out the pages of the entries that matter, knowing I might need them, and shove them in my bag.
As I rise from Ma’s chair, I feel her hands on mine, then I feel them release me. As if she’s telling me I’m going the right way.
I look back once more at the dust-cluttered pages scattered on her desk and my tears that have soaked through, and I know I won’t be coming to this room again.
Behind me, I leave the door to the study open as I step into the hall, but instead of turning right to the staircase, I turn left, toward my room.
My silent steps do not echo through the wooden hall, but they feel weighted in my mind. Each step a compulsion. I am not choosing this, I am following a trail of the past.
I take a breath as I stand before the cedar door.
It still smells the same.
Like childhood.
I push it open.
To my surprise, not a thing has moved. The small bed with green sheets sits in the far corner. The porcupine Ma crocheted sits by my pillows, and the light shines in through the window the same way it had years ago.
Just like Ma’s study, my room is frozen in time.
I step back, tears pressing against the barrier, desperate to break free. But when I finally let them through, there’s nothing left—no more to spill, no more to cry out. Just emptiness.
I stand in silence at the precipice of the door.
The doors to the closet across from it sit open, slightly ajar, and my old, handmade clothes peek out. Clothing I made with Ma. Ma who dreamed of being a warrior. Ma who made a Weapon.
I find the strength to step inside, grabbing a cardigan from the closet—one of her hand-me-downs—and holding it like a teddy bear.
I figured my childhood was expunged. My family had four years to fix this room, to erase me, and they’ve done nothing.
They’ve preserved me the same way they preserved Ma.
Whispered words jolt through me: “You’re back.”
I drop the cardigan and turn, knowing it’s Pa before I see him.
“Yes,” I say, looking down, away from his smiling face. “It’s my inadequacy, showing up as such.”
“Such a silly thing to say,” he mutters. “Inadequacy. What are they teaching you at that school?” He smiles, but I remain sullen.
His words are a reminder of how far apart we are.
How far I am from the girl who lived in this room.
Pa clears his throat, dropping his smile. “We’re always happy to see you.”
But in my mind, Terran’s words follow:It will always be a falsehood.
I smile without teeth.
“You’ll be staying this time?”
Despite him asking, I don’t know if there is any answer other than, “Yes.” I pause. “For a meal. I have to get back for an assignment.”
“Of course.” Pa smiles and wraps his arm around my back.
