Page 35 of Almost Rotten

Their laughs were the same, too.

Sometimes, when I hear her from across the store, my brain conjures up the image of Gran. Or of my mom.

The tousled edges of my heart fray a little more as I study Edna, wishing the others weren’t gone.

God, I miss them so fucking much.

I swallow back the ache, once again compartmentalizing my grief. It’s the only way I can function. For months after the incident, I berated myself over not being sad enough regarding the loss of my parents and grandma, but a person can only take so much heartache, and most of mine is reserved for my wife.

I miss Meg every minute of every day.

I don’t often have the bandwidth to miss the rest of them just as fiercely.

“Are you lost in that big head of yours, Noah?”

With a quiet chuckle, I snap out of it. “I was,” I admit. I move to lift my cap, only to remember I didn’t put one on my “big head” this morning. Instead, I run my hand through my hair out of habit.

When I meet Edna’s gaze, it’s as if her watery blue eyes see right through me, and all the heartache rushes right back to the surface.

Gran was older. She had more wrinkles on her face, the lines and creases as beautiful as delicate, intricate lace.

She lived a long life.

Despite how much I miss her, I feel the least sad about losing her.

A stream of anger trickles in.

They’re all gone because of her.

With a sharp breath, I strike that thought from my mind.

They’re all gone because of what happened, I remind myself. It wasn’t her fault. Just like I probably couldn’t have prevented it.

They’re hard truths I’ve struggled to accept. But they’re still truths, nonetheless.

“Did you need something?” Edna asks, her brow furrowed.

With a shake of my head, I put the grief aside for now.

I was having a good day, dammit.

If I had to choose one aspect of grief I hate the most, it would be the way it can swoop in and steal all of a person’s joy without notice.

I won’t let that happen today.

I’m alive, so I owe it to those I lost to fucking act like it.

“This weekend is daylight savings,” I say, taking a sharp turn away from my nostalgic, grief-ridden thoughts and focusing on more practical matters.

Edna plants her hands on her hips. “I was certain I’d live long enough to see the day they actually outlaw that outdated, disruptive shenanigan, but every year, that’s getting less likely.”

My lips twitch in a smile. “If they ever get rid of daylight savings, the clock in the cider mill will be right twelve months out of the year instead of six.”

Shetsks but smiles.

“I’ll come by your place next Sunday to change the batteries in your smoke detectors. Make me a list of what else needs to be done.”

With a gentle smile, she nods. She knows I’m just as concerned about her safety as I am anyone’s.