Page 10 of June: Jess' Story

He looks down slightly, maybe bashfully or ashamed? Before he looks up at me and nods, replying simply with, “Alex.”

I extend my hand to him.

“I’m Jess, Amy’s cousin.” I nod over my shoulder to the gravestone. Like an idiot. He nods, too, taking my hand in his and it’s like my hand gets swallowed by a bear’s paw. It’s massive, making me feel even smaller than I already do. I’m just some lowly cousin, taking up space and time at his wife’s and daughter’s grave on the anniversary of their deaths.

“Nice to meet you.” I give him a smile, then grab my purse. “I’ll leave you three alone.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just a gentle nod and I make my way down the hill towards the Volvo. Sliding into the car, I sit there and watch him. I watch the way he takes off his baseball hat and folds the bill over and over. I watch how he runs his big hands through his sandy colored hair. I watch him crouch down, his massive thighs straining against his blue jeans.

I see the way his eyes never leave that gravestone. I see how much love he pours out from his soul. I see a man mourning, deeply, the loss of his two greatest loves and I see how that must be one of the most unbearable types of grief.

Feeling like an intruder when I do this, I pull out my phone and take a picture of this man crouched and hovering over their graves. There’s something about the moment I don’t ever want to forget. Just another reminder of our fleeting presence here. (Just a reminder that a love like that exists.)

I pull out of my parking space and drive away, checking the rear view multiple times and never once see him shift, move, or drop his gaze away from their headstones.

September 23, 2013

Jess

Why don’t you disconnect this phone line?

Amy

So that I can call and hear the voicemail recording no matter when or where I am.

Oh.

Do you always carry the phone around with you, too? You always reply pretty quickly.

Yes.

It was nice to finally meet you, put a face to the name.

Same.

December 25, 2013

Jess

Merry Christmas. How are you?

Amy

Merry Christmas. Fine.

Fine and…

How are you?

I’m okay.

Just okay?

Weird day. It’s a bad day for one of my moms, which means it’s a bad day for my other mom. And it’s Christmas. So it’s hard.

Sorry.

It could be worse. It could always be worse.