Page 154 of Only With Me
So far, we’ve done a painting night at a local art studio and then a night where we made homemade muffins and drank apple cider in front of the fireplace.
Admittedly, it’s earned him alotof brownie points.
For the past couple weeks, Mom’s been trying to keep herself busy while she grieves, as we all are, but it’s almost unhealthy how much she doesn’t sit still. She comes home from work, makes dinner, cleans the house, does laundry, tidies up againbefore bed, and then when she finally gets tired, she sleeps on the couch.
She’s not ready to be in their bed.
Not that I blame her.
It’s hard seeing Dad’s power chair, his recliner, and his things around the house.
I asked Mom if we could spread some of his ashes around and she hesitantly agreed, so Waylon’s taking us somewhere to do that.
“Are y’all ready?” he asks uncomfortably after waiting twenty minutes with the urn on the coffee table in front of him.
“Mom?” I call. “It’s time to go before it gets dark out.”
I walk down the hallway, and when I find her, she’s sitting on their bed with a photo album in her lap.
“Mama? Are you okay?” I step inside and stand next to her.
“Yeah, sweetie. Just missin’ him is all.”
I rub her back, knowing there’s nothing I can say or do to make this easier and all I can do is comfort her the best way I can.
“If you’re not up for this, we don’t?—”
“No. It’s fine, sweetie. I think Dad would love one more tractor ride around the farm.”
I beam with tears in my eyes. Although that’s what caused his injury in the first place, he loved working on that farm and being a part of something that mattered. So when I asked the family he used to work for if we could spread his ashes on their land, they were more than happy to let us.
Mom stands and we meet Waylon in the living room. He greets her with a warm smile and side hug. I appreciate how much he’s there for her, too.
We walk out to Waylon’s truck and then he drives us to the Foster’s. It’s a ten-minute drive and when we arrive, Mr. Foster already pulled out the tractor for us.
Waylon hands me the urn, and then climbs inside before taking it again so Mom and I can climb up next.
“We good to go?” he asks once the doors are closed.
“Yep.”
He drives us out into one of the fields and then lowers the loader. Once he parks, he climbs back down and then I hand him the urn one final time.
Waylon pours Dad’s ashes inside the bucket of the front-end loader and then returns to the tractor.
“Okay, Mr. Fanning. One more ride around the field we go!”
I can’t help but laugh and cry at how silly this probably looks from the outside, but I don’t care. Dad would’ve loved this.
Waylon raises and tilts the bucket so the ashes can blow in the wind as he drives.
After losing his leg, Dad never got to drive a tractor again or spend another day on this farm, and now he’ll forever rest in the place that brought him so much pride.
“Thank you for today,” I tell Waylon as we sit in his truck, just the two of us.
Mom went inside to get ready for bed and I wanted to say goodnight in private.
“You’re welcome, baby. I was happy to do it and get to experience it with y’all.”
