Page 53 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

I held a single, fire-hued rose in my hand, its stem wrapped in damp tissue which did little to protect my skin from the sharp thorns. The flower wasn’t grandfather’s favorite; it was Grandmother’s, a hybrid he’d hunted down each anniversary. Yellow at the center, darkening towards the outer petals. Orange to scarlet. He’d want it this way, since his wife wasn’t here to say her own goodbye. If she were, I knew there’d be a sea of wildflowers across his casket. She’d send him away exactly how she always claimed she’d found him—resting in the middle of a field, looking like he’d fallen from the pages of a storybook,surrounded by spring blossoms. She liked to tell that story, instead of the one where they’d first met—at the charity race, Grandpa covered in mud.

No, it was their second date that she preferred. Meeting at the botanical gardens. Finding her future husband resting on the ground, his eyes closed, peacefully basking in the sun.

For me, there was no greater love story than theirs.

My fingers shook as I placed the rose atop the mounded earth. The trembling wouldn't stop these days. Sometimes I couldn't even hold a cup of coffee without sloshing it over the sides. My body seemed to be vibrating at a frequency just beyond my control, a physical manifestation of the grief I couldn't fully process.

So much gone.

Everything gone.

I didn’t like that his grave would stay poorly marked for so long. I didn’t like that the ground beside the mound was barren. How long would he be alone without his Annie?

The nameless marker taunted me.

Grandpa wasn’t a number.

He wasn’t unimportant, or obscure.

It could take anywhere from six months to a year for the stone to be ready for placement. The funeral company would let me know so I could be present during.

When they did, I’d come to check the details.

His name. His birth date. His death date. Carved and unchangeable. Space left for his beloved wife’s information later. Half a year or more, waiting for a solid piece of granite. Until then, Grandpa’s final resting place would have nothing, but the temporary piece of weather-resistant plastic stamped with the numerical identifier the graveyard used to cross-reference plot ownership. It seemed wrong, but everything seemed wrong these days.

I closed my eyes, directing my words towards the sky, towards whatever heavenly place had to exist. Had to, because if this life was it, if there was no afterlife, then that meant I’d never see him again.

"Bye, Grandpa," I whispered, my voice catching. "I hope you won’t be alone long. I hope you found mom and dad. I hope you’re hugging them and laughing together. Watch over me, will you?"

The wind picked up, sending a chill through my black dress.

It was time to go. Go from Tacoma. Go from the pain.

But I still had one more goodbye to make...

The drive to Serenity House felt both familiar and strange. I'd made this journey countless times over the past few months, but this would be the last. At least for a while. I still hadn't decided how often I'd visit Grandmother once I moved to Seattle.Would it be cruel to visit if she never recognized me? Or would it be crueler not to come at all?Either way, I’d have to deal with agony.

I found her in the sunlit common room, seated in a wheelchair by the window. Her wispy white hair caught the light, giving her a momentary halo. She wore a blue cardigan I didn't recognize—perhaps a gift from another resident or staff member. Her hands rested in her lap, the skin tissue-thin over blue veins. It was like the glow had left her, now that Grandpa was gone. Even on her worst days, when she didn’t know him, he still brought out her joy.

When I approached, she looked up with polite disinterest.

"Hello," I said, sitting in the chair beside her. "How are you today?"

She studied me with vague curiosity. "Fine, thank you. Are you new? I don't think I've seen you before."

The words shouldn't have hurt—I'd heard variations of them for months now—but they did. "I'm Nelly," I said, forcing a smile. "Your granddaughter."

She frowned slightly, looking me up and down. "Oh? I don't think so. My granddaughter is much smaller. She's just learning to dance on her toes. I bought her new laces." She smiled at that last, expression softening, gaze turning wistful. How old was I when I got my first pair of pointe shoes? Eleven maybe... Right before heading to study full time in San Francisco.

"That was a while ago," I said gently. "I'm grown up now."

She gave me a skeptical look but didn't argue. "Have you seen Richard? He's usually here by now. He promised to take me for ice cream. I want cherry chip this time.”

My throat tightened. "He's... he's away right now."

"Away?" Her brow furrowed deeper. "He didn't tell me he was going anywhere. Where did he go? Richard would never leave without telling me." She stuck out her chin, mouth drawing into a hard line.

I searched for an answer that wouldn't upset her. "He had to take a trip. He'll be gone for a while. But he loves you very much."