Chapter 47
forty-seven
Rosalie
The next morning, we all take our time getting ready before heading to the farmers’ market in downtown Winhaven.
The girls are excited to get their “pancake wraps” as Paige has taken to calling them, no matter how many times Cameron and I tell her they’re called crepes. We stand in line and listen as she and Addison chat rapidly about whether they’ll be getting peanut butter or Nutella on their wraps.
Cameron and I look at each other and smile, knowing they’ll get one of each and share, as they always do.
Things just feel right these days, and I’m encouraged by the life I’ve made here.
As I look into the eyes of the man I love staring back at me with a clear look of adoration on his face, and then glance down at Paige and Addie, who currently have their arms looped through one another’s, I feel like I’m finally on the right path.
After eating our crepes, we peruse the rest of the farmer’s market picking up some of my favorite honey-walnut goat cheese, homemade sourdough bread, and some amazing looking vegetables I’ll try like hell to make the girls eat later this week—although I’ll likely fail.
As we begin our trek to the car, Cameron stops at a stand selling beautiful bouquets of flowers and buys a large one for me and a single rose for each Addie and Paige.
He hands the girls their flowers and then gently kisses me on the cheek before giving me mine.
I look down at the vibrant bouquet of beautiful roses and see bright orange tiger lilies sticking out among them.
I smile, knowing this is a moment my mom is saying hi, and rather than let the grief overtake me, I decide to say hi back and bask in her presence.
When we arrive back at my house, there’s a large brown box with familiar handwriting on it waiting on the front porch. Cam picks it up and brings it in for me, setting it down on the kitchen table. “Do you know what’s inside?”
Placing my hand on the box and tracing his unmistakable scrawl in all capital letters, I respond. “Vaguely. My dad told me earlier this week on the phone he sent me another box of my mom’s things and that they should be arriving today.”
“Oh.” Cameron’s voice holds a tone of questioning as if he’s trying to get a read on how I feel about this.
I can’t blame him. I’ve only been to counseling a few times, and historically, I haven’t handled things like this too well.
However, I’m feeling better. Even in those three short visits, Dr. Allen has helped me normalize my grief responses.
She’s even warned me there may be more to come because grief is a cycle.
She’s also given me a lot to think about and tools to help me reframe those moments, so I’m not stuck on spin, helpless to get out.
I glance up at Cameron and bring a hand to his cheek, placing the other on his chest, forcing him to focus on me.
“I’m okay. I may not be able to open the box today, tomorrow, next week, or even next year, but I’m not afraid of what’s inside. I just want to be ready and in a place mentally where I can feel all the feelings in an uninhibited, raw way with those who make me feel the safest.”
His eyes go soft, and his gaze turns tender, understanding I mean with him.
“I promise to be there whenever you need me. To hold you as you fall apart, to laugh with you, to reminisce with you, or to simply sit with you in silence at your side. I can do it all. Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”
I move the hand that was on his chest to his other cheek and kiss the incredibly selfless man I love hard on the mouth.
“I’m so freaking lucky,” I say, after pulling away from his lips and dropping my hands.
“You are,” Cameron says giving the large box a few affectionate taps. “You found the only man in these parts willing to use his gargantuan muscles to repeatedly move boxes from your porch to inside your house.”
At that, I laugh freely, and it feels good.
Later in the evening, when the girls are settled on the couch with their super sundae desserts, and Cameron and I are cleaning the kitchen, my curiosity starts to get the best of me.
I want to see what’s in the box my dad sent, and I take it as a good sign I don’t want to avoid what’s inside, feeling more eagerness than dread.
“Hey, Cam?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can you help me take my mom’s box into the bedroom?”
His eyes widen a fraction in surprise, but he immediately moves to pick up the box. I follow him to the bedroom and direct him to put it on the floor. I sit down in front of it cross-legged and Cameron sits down next to me.
I have to giggle as I watch him struggle to cross his legs beneath himself. In retaliation, he knocks my shoulder, and I tumble sideways, laughing as I struggle to get back up. Cameron’s hand reaches out, and he pulls me back up into his side and kisses my temple.
“Are you ready for this?”
“Yeah, I think I am.”
He drops his arm from my shoulder, pulls out the pocket knife he always carries, and carefully slices into the tape on the box.
I gingerly reach forward and open the flaps, pulling away the sheets of packing bubbles layering the top. I set them aside because I know Addie and Paige will have a great time playing with them and pull out the first object.
It’s a sweatshirt with Colorado State Mom embroidered on it.
I laugh and pull it up to my face, hoping like hell when I breathe in, the faint smell of my mom will still be on it.
The perfect combination of laundry detergent and Estée Lauder’s Beautiful Belle perfume hits my nose, and it smells like home.
Tears prick my eyes, but it’s not sadness I feel; it’s contentment. I slip the sweatshirt over my head and it feels like being enveloped by my mom in a warm hug.
Cameron reaches out to swipe the tear from my face as I sniffle and huff out a laugh. He’s smiling, but there’s a crease of concern in his brow, so I reach forward to smooth it out.
“I’m good. Really. I never thought I’d want to drown myself in old woman perfume, but here we are.”
He chuckles and leans forward to kiss me softly. It’s reassurance for both of us that he’s in this with me, and I’ve never been more grateful.
I shift another sheet of bubble wrap from the top and briefly wonder how large the pile will be once I get to the bottom of the box and how long I’ll have to endure the sound of it crackling as each circle is pinched beneath small fingers, or worse, stomped on by small feet.
My breath hitches when I see a familiar looking notebook. It’s brown leather, just like the other one, however, it doesn’t look nearly as used.
I slowly remove it from the box and set it in my lap. I place my hands on the cover and ponder whether I want to open it.
Cameron reaches over and places his hand on mine.
“You don’t have to open it now. You can always wait.”
Patience and self-preservation haven’t ever been my strong suit when it comes to things that claw at my curiosity, so I know immediately I really do want to open it.
“Or you could hold my hand and help me open to the first page.”
Cameron doesn’t hesitate, taking my left hand in his right and holding the book open while I turn and read the first page.
Dear Mom,
When you died, I felt so incredibly lost. I worried all the pieces and memories of you would slowly fade away.
I began to panic that I’d lose all the things you taught me, that I wouldn’t be able to pass them along to my own kids.
I mean, your memory only gets worse as you age, and my bank of memories is half the life you were supposed to live.
So, I decided to start writing to you. Some days I asked for advice, other days I just needed to vent, and pretty often I wanted to share funny stories about how the kids were doing as they grew up.
I had so many stories to share and I have plenty more to come, I’m sure.
I wanted to talk to you and hear your responses as if you were right in front of me.
I didn’t want to lose the cadence of your replies, the “Honeys” that conveyed every emotion from pride to empathy, but most of all, I didn’t want to lose you.
So, I wrote to you in these journals and replied to myself with your voice in mind.
I placed all your little nuances, your humor, your positivity, your understanding into them.
I gave myself the advice I know you’d have given me, or in some cases I changed it a bit to be what I wanted to hear…
sorry about that. I included memories of us and of conversations I needed to replay.
I included you. And what I wish you’d said.
But recently, I’ve slowed down and allowed the grief to come and go, rather than drown me.
I’ve taken to absorbing the world around me, seeing where you’d fit into the life I’ve built and basking in your presence in the little things.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing to you, but I can assure you the letters should slow down a bit.
I know if I need you, you’ll be there, ready to reply in the way only you could.
Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for your wisdom, your care, your love.
I felt it unconditionally, every single day.
Love,
Lily
I stare at the page and know the moment Cameron catches on to what this letter means because his hand tightens on mine.
“Your mom wrote the letters to herself. She wrote them as both your grandmother and your mom.” His voice is hushed and filled with wonder.
I drop my head in my hands and begin to cry or laugh, I can’t quite tell, but I suppose it’s a combination of both.
I cry for the ingenious woman I call Mom, who had both the desperation and the creativity to keep her mom’s memory alive by writing letters where she played both parts.
I laugh because who would believe we’d both cling to the same letters to deal with similar grief years and years apart.
I cry because I’m sad and I miss my best friend, but I laugh because even after she’s gone, she’s still teaching me how to live.
Cameron holds me tight as I wrestle with the dichotomy of feelings this letter has brought about, and when I’m ready, I exhale and remove myself from the safety of his arms.
Tucking a piece of loose hair behind my ear, he palms my face and searches my eyes.
“I know I keep asking this, and I feel like out of all the people, I should know a better way to ask, but are you okay?”
I nod my head in his hands. “For today, I am.”
He kisses me softly, letting his lips linger on mine before wrapping his arms back around me and pulling me close.
I relish the feeling of rightness I’ve found beyond the pages of my mom’s letters, wrapped in her sweatshirt, held in the arms of the man I adore, the sounds of our children laughing down the hall.
I feel the hole in my heart closing just a little bit more, as the most important people in my life surround me in love.