Page 84 of Chosen Road

He picked up a second package of pens, those pens adorned with brighter flowers, and tossed them into the cart as well.

He led me around the kiosk, time and again drawing my attention back to the task at hand. He held up a flat, black notebook. “This one look like your style, no?”

My eyes fluttered over to see what was in his hands and he laughed at my reaction. “No? Okay. I try again.” He picked up a notebook with a basketball on it and I smiled at his silliness. “This one no good either, eh?”

“No, Pappou. Try again,” I decided to play his game.

His face lit up like I’d lassoed the moon. Maybe to him, at that moment, I had.

He circled the kiosk, bringing me with him then made his choices, all flowery pastels and watercolors, and I smiled my approval.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, picking up the last notebook which boasted a huge bouquet of flowers in bright, garish colors. “This one,” he held it up for my perusal, “this one gonna be magic.”

I sniffed at the memory as I shook myself back to the present.

I circled the kiosk again, and this time chose with my Pappou in mind. I found the brightest, most garish, flowery cover I could, and stood for a moment, looking at it. Until the day he died, he remained my brighter flower. I heard his voice in my head. ‘This one, this one gonna be magic.’

“I hope so, Pappou,” I whispered, as I added it to my basket.

That night, after Alex went to bed, I pulled out my journal and recorded what I’d learned, contemplated ways I might adjust the lesson for Mallory, and recorded those ideas as well.

I opened my new package of pens. There were no floral ones, but I chose a bright blue one to honor Pappou and my Greek heritage. I stabbed the tip of the pen through the hole punch of the paper to break the plastic wrap and pulled out a few pages.

At the top of the page, I wrote, Dear Angus.

For the next five minutes I filled the page with doodles of flowers.

I got a fresh page and tried again, only this time, instead of Gus’s name, wrote,

Dear Mom,

I don’t remember when I stopped looking for you. I don’t know if it was something that happened suddenly one day, like an item on my to-do list that I forgot to check off, or if it petered off slowly, taking up less and less space in my day until it was extinguished like the flame of a candle leaving only a trail of smoke.

I think it was like that.

Except the smoke never dissipated.

It has polluted every decision I’ve ever made and hangs like a cloud over my life.

It is jumping in and out of relationships or refusing to allow any to form at all.

It is my indecisiveness, self-doubt, and irritability.

It is my penchant for people-pleasing, my inability to say no, and the resentment that arises from that.

It is my continual insistence on picking at Gus’s flaws and refusing to share my fears and my feelings.

It is my avoidance of vulnerability, and my inability to trust Gus or anyone else.

Where there is smoke, there’s fire, and that fire is the wound you burned in me when you left.

I get why you left. I do. This past year separated from Gus gave me a small taste of what it might have been like for you after losing Dad.

But you still had us to love.

Love is a decision just as much as it’s a feeling, and you decided wrong.

Love is a decision.

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