Page 168 of The Wrong Heart

Our beginning doesn’t have to be our end.

Bree lets me go and rises from the chair as the final guests depart and Melody saunters over to us with August in her arms and our baby boy in her belly.

“I’m going to take off,” my sister says, meeting Melody halfway and enveloping both girls in a fond hug. “Enjoy the peace.”

She lifts her hand in goodbye as I stand to my feet and wave back. When her car rolls out of the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires and music fading off as she disappears down the dirt road, I turn to face a smiling Melody.

Her eyes are tired, gleaming with exhaustion, her skin pink from either a hot flash or wind burn. A long, flowing dress tickles her ankles, smeared with fingerpaint and cake. Both braids came loose, leaving her straw blonde hair in a mess of waves and tangles as a crisp wind sends it dancing behind her like a veil.

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.

---