She’s burned out and overworked, but she’s still smiling.
I return the smile, plucking our three-year-old from her weakening arms, taking some of her weight. “Story time?”
Both girls nod with bright grins, and we collectively move to the back of the house and perch ourselves in the grass near the slow-growing magnolia tree. Walden joins us, prancing through the cracked back door with his red ball in his mouth, his long, healthy tufts of hair shining beneath the ambient sun.
August scurries from my lap the moment we’re situated, racing towards the house. “I get Nutmeg! She love stories.”
Melody and I share a tender glance as Walden settles beside us. I stroke a palm through his fur, and his sigh of contentment filters through me, adding to my placidity.
“I back!”
My daughter runs forward with the hamster in her hands, crawling into my lap.
August loves story time. She’s our little storyteller.
Every evening we gather together and talk about our favorite part of the day. We call it story time, but it’s more a moment of reflection. Appreciation. We look for the good in each day, even if the entirety of it felt like shit.
There is always something.
However small or insignificant, there’s always a glimmer of hope—of sweetness.
A starting point to build from.
I wrap an arm around my wife, pulling her against my chest until both of my favorite girls are entangled with me. We spend the next ten minutes talking, reminiscing, and watching the sun cast its final rays of golden orange along the skyline, bathing us in dusk.
Before we head back inside, a gentle breeze blows through, stealing our breath.
August stills in my lap and wonders aloud, “What that, Daddy? It tickle me.”
My fingers weave through Melody’s hair as a smile paints my lips. She snuggles in closer, already knowing the answer.
I asked my father that same question one sunny afternoon on his front porch as the daylilies danced to a funny sort of breeze. Swallowing, I reply, “A zephyr.”
Giggles erupt from little pink lips. “That silly.”
Holding them both tighter, I recall a hazy memory with my father as I sat beside him on the porch swing with a lapful of plump cherries and a mischievous pup at my feet. He told me that every time a breeze rolled through it was a zephyr—a gentle promise of new beginnings.
Zephyrus was the god of the west wind, the god of springtime, a representation of fresh starts and growth. A beacon of hope and new life.
For whatever reason, I carried that moment with me. As a scared child, locked in that closet, I’d feel him with me every time a gust of wind shimmied beneath the door, a calm presence amidst the darkness.
My father. Zephyr.
He became my companion, my imaginary friend, whispering in my ear to hold on.
Winter doesn’t last forever.
Spring is coming.
It took a long fucking time to find my new beginning—my starting point. My blooming magnolia in a field of wilting and decay. But I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing… because everything led me to her. To them.
August leaps from my lap to dance around the yard, her hair and dress spinning as her feet whirl in clumsy circles. My eyes water at the vision. So precious, so beautiful, so fleeting.
A hard puff of air escapes me when Melody takes our daughter’s place, hopping into my lap and leaning back against my chest.
I grin. “So intrusive.”
She nuzzles in closer, her fine hairs tickling my chin as a chuckle breaks free. “Like the sun, right?”
My arms encase her body, pulling her as close as possible. I breathe in her citrusy musk, her flowery skin, and the warmth that bleeds from every inch of her. “Yeah… that’s right.”
Melody will always be the sun, shining bright, a beautiful new beginning.
But above all, she is my moon.
The perfect end.
“We go inside! Nutmeg sleepy,” August calls over, her smile sparkling, just like her mother’s. “We go home.”
Home.
With the love of my life tucked inside my arms, I watch from the grass as my daughter skips to the back door with a hamster in her hands and an old, sweet dog trailing her ankles.
My heart soars. “I love you, Melody,” I murmur softly, placing a kiss to the top of her head.
She sighs deeply before we rise to our feet, and then she twists in my embrace. Glancing up at me, the sweetest smile blooms to life, and her eyes twinkle jade and joyful, whispering the words before they even leave her lips. “I love you.”
I smile back.
Home.
They say that home is where the heart is…
And I know I found them both when I found her.
—EPILOGUE—
The Future
(The Day the Sun Sets)
I’ve always been tethered to the rain somehow.
Drizzle beats against the glass window with gentle pitter-patters, filling the room with something peaceful. A nostalgic ambience. It’s the perfect complement to my sedated heartbeats and the melodies drifting from a nearby speaker, serenading me with Unchained Melody.
My mind reflects along with the quiet storm clouds, and I think back to all of life’s pertinent moments that fused with rainfall. I lost something of great value on a rainy downtown street, but I also gained immensely over the years.
Breakthroughs, lovemaking, childbirth, and wedding vows.
Dancing, kisses, baseball games, and birthday parties.
Rain poured down on the day Ms. Katherine retired from Loving Lifelines, handing the reins over to me and giving me a deep layer of added purpose to my life. I can still recall the way her wet hair matted over her forehead as we stood in that familiar parking lot beneath a weeping sky.
“Shine bright, Melody. Your smile is a gift to even the saddest soul.”
My pulse thrums with bittersweet memories.
Yes. It’s fitting, I suppose—it’s always been the rain and me.
Heaving in a rickety sigh, I blink back tears, my gaze settling on the ceiling fan above me. It’s been an emotionally exhausting day of reminiscing and teary send-offs.
Final goodbyes.
Familiar faces have trickled in and out of the room with words of love and peace. All precious pieces of my heart. Our two beautiful children, our grandchildren, our plethora of great grandchildren. Our friends and family who are still living. Even our senior dog was brought in for a sweet farewell.
The goodbyes have been said.
All except for one.
It’s just me and Parker now, wrapped up in each other, lying beneath the warm, quieting sheets of our king-sized bed. We used to joke about trading the bed in for something smaller, a queen or a full, because the extra space always proved futile. Every single night, I would wind up on his side of the mattress, pressed up against his back or chest, lost in the comforting beats of his heart.
In all of our years together, we never slept apart. Not once. There were no business trips, no travel obligations, no arguments that separated us before nightfall settled in.
Every evening was spent together in this bed, beneath this roof he built himself, side by side. Limbs tangled, hearts aligned. Through late-night newborn feedings, heated passion, summer thunderstorms, movie marathons, and pancake breakfasts, this bed became a focal point in our long and happy marriage. Home base. We’d play card games, read books, discuss our day. There were tickle fights, cuddles with the kids, and wet dog noses.