Page 17 of Grim
I step barefoot into the yard, the grass cool and overgrown beneath my feet and completely drenched. The smell of wet earth rises around me—moss and old stone, iron-rich soil and something faintly sweet, like honeysuckle clinging to decay, a funeral bouquet left too long in the sun.
The family plot is small. Maybe a dozen headstones, all of them crooked. Some are so old that the letters have worn away entirely, names swallowed by time.
I’ve walked this path so many times that it’s etched into my muscle memory.
The mindlessness of my meandering brings comfort now.
I keep walking.
The fog is low, snaking through the trees. Rain needles my skin. My dress clings to my legs as the wind tugs at the hem. I feel a bit like a ghost wandering through the dead.
My fingers dance over the top of each concrete slab, names so old that not even the stone remembers them anymore. Several of the family headstones have fadedto the point that they can no longer be read. Grey stone swallowed by erosion and moss, stories lost to time.
Then I arrive at my destination—the plot I always land on whenever I make my way to the Chamberlain family resting place.
“Hey, Dad,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to the cold marble. “Miss me?”
The vines have grown thicker, with green tendrils curling around the base, as if they’re holding it steady. Like they won’t let it fall, even if everything else around it does.
I brush away the wet leaves. “I know you never cared much for appearances, but I like your plot to look good. And you can’t do anything to stop me.”
I let out a laugh that sounds like a wet sob. I wait for Dad to respond. I know he won’t, that he can’t, but I always like to leave a little room for magic.
Once the silence has stretched like taffy, I confide in the best listener I have ever known, in life and the afterlife. “I don’t know what brought me out here tonight, Dad. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t shake this feeling. It’s a bit like foreboding or melancholy maybe. Anyway, you always told me to trust my instincts, and something told me to come out here and let you know just how much I miss you.
“I do, Dad. I miss you so much that it’s like I can feel it.”
Naming the sensation brings it into being, and a sharp pang hits my heart, followed by a tingling sensation running down my right arm. I flex my fingers.
“I wrote you something a while ago, and it plays in my head all the time. It’s one of the only sonnets I’ve written that I have memorized. Can I read it to you, Dad?”
A crack of lightning floods the world in an instant of light, which feels like an answer to me. As the rain continues to fall, I share my words with my dad.
“I wrote this one while wrestling with the whole uncertainty of the ARVD thing. This is called ‘Present.’”
Present
How could I not want a gift that you gave
Me, even if it arrived in pieces?
Glue them together in gold so I save
The story of those imperfect creases.
Wonder with glee what is wrapped up inside.
It’s the thought though that’s truly the treasure.
A present speaks loudly what you never hide.
That your feelings for me are past measure.
Why is it then that you look rather sad?
You gave me your heart. I know it’s broken.
Enough for me that it came from you, Dad.
