Page 56 of Hearts on Ice
George was there—work-rough hands folded on his knees. Sarah, shoulders small but jaw set. Zachary, hood up, leg bouncing so hard his shoe tapped the tile. Two new people were present: a woman with silver braids pulled back tight and eyes that scanned the exits, and a guy in his forties in a button-down that didn’t quite fit, like he’d lost weight too fast.
“First names only,” Marsha said, gentle as ever. “Share what you can. We witness, we don’t fix.”
George started. “I’m George,” he said. “Today I caught myself talking to my Edith in the kitchen. Asked if she’d seen my glasses. They were on my head.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sob. “I guess that’s… something.”
A thread of soft, respectful laughter moved through the room. Not at him. With him.
Marsha’s eyes softened. “That’s connection,” she said quietly. “It sneaks in on ordinary days.”
Sarah went next. “I’m Sarah. My son lived twelve days,” she said. “His clothes are still in the dresser. I can’t pack them away yet. I thought I’d be able to by now.”
Marsha’s voice was gentle but steady. “That’s a hard step, Sarah. Sometimes holding on is part of healing too—its own small ritual. You’ll know when the time’s right.”
Zachary cleared his throat. “I’m Zachary. My mom died in June.” His voice shook, but he kept going. “Everybody keeps telling me to ‘stay busy.’ I’m busy all day and then at night I just feel stupid and alone.” He looked down, knuckles white where he gripped his own wrist. “So I’m here.”
The room went quiet. Marsha nodded. “Busy doesn’t mean better,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m Drew,” I said. My voice felt like it had to fight through my chest to get out. “It’s six years today. My wife and our daughter died in a plane crash.”
Saying it out loud still hit like a body check you never saw coming.
“I thought…” I exhaled, slow. “I thought by six years I’d be—I don’t know—functional. Stable.” I let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “And in a lot of ways I am. I’ve got a job. I show up. I keep the routines going: practice, travel, meetings. Stay busy enough not to feel too much.”
No one looked away.
I rubbed my thumb over the knuckle of my opposite hand, trying to keep my breathing even. “You told us a few weeks ago to make a ritual,” I said, glancing at Marsha. “Something that’s ours.”
She dipped her chin in that small way of hers that meant keep going.
“So I cook,” I said, letting the words hang there a second. “Wednesday nights, if I’m in town and not on the road. My wife used to do Sundays—pasta night. After they died, I kept it up for a while, thinking maybe the smell or the taste would make the absence feel less final. Then one Sunday it hit me—they weren’t coming home—and I stopped. Couldn’t step into the kitchen to cook a real meal for years. But now, when I cook, it feels like she’s there again. I can almost hear her humming while the pan sizzles.”
My throat tightened. I pushed through it.
“The first time…” I said quietly, “I shared it with someone.”
I could see Miguel in my head like he was still sitting at my table—forearms braced on wood. The way his voice seemed likehe was half-singing when he got animated or teasing, the way it filled my dead-quiet apartment and made it feel like somewhere someone actually lived.
Marsha’s voice was soft. “That’s a beautiful ritual, Drew. You brought life back into something that held loss.”
The woman with the silver braids spoke for the first time. “Hi, I’m Beverly.” Her smile was tentative. “The first time I let anybody sit in my husband’s chair, I almost threw up,” she said. Her voice had grit in it, but also warmth. “Then I realized the empty chair wasn’t what made him mine. Loving him did. That doesn't leave just because someone else is in the room.”
Marsha gave a small nod, the kind that saidstay with that truth.
The man in the button-down let out a breath. “I’m Luis,” he said quietly. “My brother was my person. I’m only here because the hospital lady wouldn’t stop calling. Today’s three weeks.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You showed up, Luis,” Marsha said gently. “That’s the first step, and it’s the hardest one.”
Marsha looked around the circle. “Anniversaries are heavy,” she said softly. “Not because grief comes back, but because love doesn’t leave. Love wants a place to land. Ritual gives it a place.”
Her eyes returned to me. “And letting someone sit in that ritual with you?” She smiled, just a little. “That’s not moving on, Drew. That’s moving with.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, not right then. My jaw locked; my eyes burned in that way I always hated.
But I nodded.
That was enough.
Outside, the sun sat too bright on the cracked asphalt of the lot. I stood by my truck and watched my own reflection waver in the driver’s side glass. The reflection staring back wasn’t any different, but somehow, I felt like I was.
