Bad Memory

~Part of Me~

I woke up to a sky full of puffy peach clouds. They drifted lazily across the horizon, in no rush to escape the encroaching darkness of the sunset.

A blanket had been carefully draped over my body, and what seemed to be some kind of clothing was wedged under my head.

Ezra’s jacket.

Confused, I turned my head to find my husband sitting next to me, reading a book. He smiled when he noticed I was awake.

“How long have I been asleep?” I asked groggily.

Ezra shrugged. “Few hours.”

I pushed myself upright, shocked. “I’m so sor-"

But Ezra cut off my apology before I could even finish it. “Don’t be. I’m glad you could rest.”

I looked back to Lillian’s grave. The more I looked at her name, the more real it all felt. I had held onto a naïve hope that one day I would get another call from her, or she would just show up at my house unannounced. But the stone before me was physical proof of a cruel and undeniable reality: I would never see her again.

“What is it?” my ever-intuitive husband asked. Though I supposed he didn’t need to be that observant to see the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.

“I just…I feel guilty.”

Ezra pulled me to him gently. “Why?” he murmured as he rubbed my back.

“I promised Lillian I’d be with her forever,” I told him. “But I'm not. I’m not with her. I broke that promise.”

Ezra’s eyes drifted to the colorful horizon, his expression pensive. “I don’t think you did.”

“What do you mean?”

“The people we love…I think they become part of us,” he mused before turning back to me. “Don’t you?”

I nodded.

“So then you are still together. She lives on in you.”

I looked at Lillian’s grave again, feeling the weight of Ezra’s words. My eyes welled with tears at all of the emotions I was feeling: the pain of loss, the warmth of Lillian’s presence, and the relief from guilt over a promise that hadn’t actually been broken. Because Ezra was right – Lillian was still with me. Not physically, but in everything I said, thought, felt. She was still here, a part of me.

Ezra stood and extended his hand, his gesture asking if I was ready to leave. I took his hand, feeling his warmth and strength as he helped me to my feet.

We walked silently back to his truck. When we passed by Ezra’s parents’ graves, he kissed his fingers, then touched them to the stone.

“Do you visit them often?” I asked.

“Every Sunday.”

“Can I come with?”

His deep brown eyes connected with mine. “Of course,” he replied, his voice soft but certain.

The drive back to the house together was quiet as well, with the only noise the hum of the truck’s engine. As I stared out the window at the passing landscape, now illuminated solely by the moon, I felt a wave of gratitude for Ezra. I had never known a man to be so considerate, so invested in my thoughts and feelings. He almost seemed unreal.

Maybe it was his thoughtfulness that prompted me to do what I did next. Or my loneliness. Or the rawness of all my emotions. Most likely some combination of all three. Whatever the reason, right after Ezra shut our front door, I surprised both of us by flinging myself at him.