"I miss you."
The words are a whisper into the wind that I know nobody will ever hear, yet I say them anyway. It doesn't matter to me that there isn't a person around for miles; I know the woman the words are meant for will hear them all the same.
Staring down at the tombstone across from me, tears prick at my vision. I knew coming home wasn't going to be easy; that seeing her grave wasn't going to be easy. But I also knew that this was something I had to do, because I need this. I need to let go. I need to find peace. The longer I hold onto this pain that I'm feeling now, the longer it will control me. I just want to be set free.
I lower down onto the bench before me, grasping the bouquet of daises I hold in my hand tightly. Daises had been my mother's favorite flowers. After she passed, I began remembering a lot of little details about her. Random things that had slipped my mind until I realized that I didn't have much use for them anymore. It's almost ironic, remembering the the things that had been important to my mother now that she's gone.
However, my mother is alive and immortal in my memories. "Daises are my favorite," I can remember her saying to me, "because they're simple. And despite their simplicity, they still manage to be beautiful. That just goes to show that there is something beautiful in even the most ordinary of things, Noah. Never forget that there is beauty in everything."
My heart feels heavy with the memory. I know that if Mom were here, she'd be reminding me to stop agonizing over my loss and try to find the beauty in my life. She'd remind that even though she's gone, I still have something to live for.
With that thought, I find myself thinking of the things I'm still grateful to have, things I'd come close to losing thanks to my need for self-destruction. After Mom passed, I lost myself. I went down a dark path, led astray by pain, allowing it to consume me until it was all I had left. I lost a lot, and for a while I never thought I'd made make it back to this town or that I'd find myself again.
Yet here I am.
Deep down, I always knew I would come home. This town, my father's town—Magnolia Heights—this is the place that feels the most like home to me. Three years ago, I almost lost my relationship with my father. I packed up my things and left without so much as a goodbye. I didn't talk to my father for months before finally realizing that I needed him, more than ever after my mother passed. The first time I came back home was a short visit months ago, and the second my father embraced me I was a mess of tears and emotion. It felt good to cry, to finally release the pain living within me.
Then there's my stepmom, Caroline. The first time I met her I wasn't her biggest fan, to say the least. I didn't understand what my father saw in her, and I immediately noticed she was as far from my mother as a woman could get, which I took as a personal offense. However, as time went on, I grew to love Caroline. After Mom passed, my relationship with her crumbled once again. But now that I'm twenty-one and have slightly matured, I've realized that I have no reason to dislike Caroline. She'd always been kind to me, even when I'd been an ass to her. I've learned that we're more alike than I first thought. She was there for me after I lost my mom in the ways that matter most, and I'll be forever grateful to her for that. Staring at my mother's grave now, it's safe to say I have two mothers now: one an angel in heaven, the other here with me on earth.
Thoughts of Caroline lead me to Charlotte, my half-sister. Despite everything, thinking of the two-year-old never ceases to make me smile. Charlotte is exactly what I needed to enter my life after living through such a dark period, managing to light up my day whenever I'm around her. She's a bubbly little thing, always happy and laughing or smiling. I'd been so close to not meeting her, and the thought makes me ache. But I'm trying now. Trying to become a better person, trying to be a better man.
Charlotte sometimes reminds me of Blake Rhodes. Thinking about the first girl I ever fell in love with opens a wound in my heart I don't think will ever fully close, and I revel in the pain for a moment. Yet it's true. Charlotte Reed is just as lively and loving and full of light at the age of two as Blake Rhodes had been three years ago.
After leaving this town, I thought back on my last few moments with Blake for a while. It still hurts to think about the pained expression I left her with, the tears that had been trailing down her cheeks as I broke her heart. In that moment, Blake needed me. My mother had just died, and I know that she was hurting and lost and confused, just as I was. She needed me as much as I needed her.
And I left her.
She'd given me an ultimatum: to stay and fight for her, or leave and lose her for good. And like a damn idiot I had hopped into my car and drove off, as if the time I'd spent with Blake and the love I had for her meant nothing.
I often find myself wondering what happened to her after I left. I know I had a hell of a hard time trying to get over her. I fell back into the habit of smoking, picked up drinking again, and tried a handful of different kinds of drugs. Yet no matter how drunk or high or out of it I was, nothing could make me forget how beautiful Blake Rhodes was, how gentle yet strong our love had been, and the way she had made me feel.
I hope that I had been easy for her to get over, as much as the thought hurts me. I hope that Blake didn't waste her time crying over a jerk who promised he wouldn't leave her, only to break her heart and cop out the second things got tough. I hope she has found someone who treats her like the beautiful soul she is, a man that makes her feel loved and safe. I hope Blake Rhodes is having the time of her life. I hope that she hardly thinks of me at all.
And yet I hope she still remembers me. Because I'm selfish. No matter how happy Blake is now, no matter what she's doing with her life, no matter who she's with . . . I hope she remembers me. I hope she thinks back on the way I made her feel when she was mine. I hope she can still recall the times I made her laugh, the way I held her hand, how gently I kissed her, the way it felt to have my hands on her body. I hope that she still remembers—no matter how badly things between us ended—that she once loved me as much as I still love her. And I'll never be able to stop loving her. A person doesn't fall in love with someone like Blake Rhodes and merely stop. Loving someone like Blake Rhodes is a love that lasts forever, and I'm perfectly okay with that.
I ease out of my thoughts, remembering where I am and what I'm here for. Staring down at the flowers in my hand, I swallow hard. I've visited my mother's grave quite a few times now, yet I've never been able to do the one thing I know I need to.
Say goodbye.
Before my mother died, I didn't have the chance to tell her goodbye. The last conversation I had with her, I'd promised I would go home with her once she was able to leave the hospital. That it wouldn't be the last time I told her I loved her. Only one of those promises I was able to keep, somewhat. After Mom passed, I did go back to the home I'd shared with her . . . only she wasn't able to make the journey with me.
Once I lost her, I was never able to tell Mom goodbye. Goodbyes have always been hard for me. They always feel so final, like an ending. Though I know I need to tell my mother goodbye so I can find peace with her passing, I'm still not quite ready to let go.
I turn the bouquet around in my hand slowly as I glance at my mother's tombstone, forcing myself to read the lettering across the granite. In memory of Joanna Lynn Underwood, a loving mother, friend, and beautiful soul.
When Mom passed, nobody had been sure where to bury her. Mom had never had a good relationship with her parents, and I can only remember seeing them once or twice throughout my childhood. Because of this, it was understood my mother didn't want to be buried with them. After a while, it was decided Mom would be buried here in Magnolia Heights, as it made the most sense. It's where my father lives, and he was the closest thing my mother had left to family. It's also the closest town to where she passed, and, well, it's my home.
As I look at my mother's tombstone, I feel like I should say something. It doesn't matter to me that the rational part of me knows nobody is here to listen to me speak; I still feel the need to tell my mother goodbye properly. Somehow, I know my mother will hear the words. She may not be here physically, but I know she's with me in spirit. In my heart and in my memories, my mother will live on forever.
"I don't know what to say," I mutter with a snort, ashamed. "If you were here, you'd tell me to say what's on my mind, so I guess I'll run with that."
I hesitate for a moment, gaze dropping to the flowers I hold. There's a lump forming in my throat I can't seem to swallow, and my vision pricks with tears.
"I miss you, Mom," I croak. "I miss you more than I thought was possible. It's hard seeing you everywhere yet knowing I'm not going to see you again." My voice is hoarse, so I take a moment to collect myself.
"I was only a kid when I lost you, and I'm hardly more than that now, but I feel like I've grown up enough to understand how much you gave up and did for me. You raised me as a single parent for the majority of my life, and you took it all in stride. I know how hard you worked to make enough for us to live off of. Even when you were exhausted out of your mind, you always made time for me and had a smile on your face." I blink back my oncoming tears, my breathing labored.
"So thank you, Mom. I never told you that enough. Thank you so much for everything. I wouldn't be who I am today without you." I feel as if I need to say more. After all, this is supposed to be my sort of release. I might as well get everything off of my chest now to enable myself to be set free.
"And I'm sorry," I say, voice breaking. "I'm sorry for being such a hard child to raise. I never made things easy for you, even though I should have. I know I had some bad habits, especially with drugs and drinking. After I lost you, I abused those habits to the point where I never thought I'd break them. But a few months ago . . . I don't know what happened, Mom. I just woke up, I guess. It was hard, but I managed to get sober. And I've been sober since. I haven't touched a cigarette in months, as hard as its been." I manage a slight chuckle, poking fun at myself since my mother isn't here to do it for me.
"I decided to come back home. For years, I've been trying to outrun my problems. But they stick with me no matter how far I run. It's time I finally get my life together. Get a job. Save for house. Settle down. I'm trying—" My voice gives out, thick with the tears I'm trying so hard to keep in. "I'm trying to become the son you deserved. A man that would make you proud."
I realize that I don't feel the need to say anything else. I rise from the bench I've been sitting on, approaching my mother's tombstone. I reach forward and lower the flowers I've been holding into the plant holder placed next to her grave.
I rest my hand atop the granite before me, smiling sadly down at the flowers as I whisper, "You were as beautiful as you were extraordinary, Mom. And this isn't a goodbye . . ." I trail off, my smile tender as I say, "It's only a see you later."
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a/n: this was a chapter that got me a little misty-eyed to write ngl.
if any of you guys want to follow me on instagram it's @kaitlyn_graceh. my dm's are always open to anyone who wants to talk about anything or just needs someone to listen and rant. :)