Chapter 34 Diane
Diane
The cemetery sits in the shadow of the lighthouse, its perimeter staked by a weather-beaten fence that leans away, as if startled by the view.
The sky is the washed-out blue of a faded photograph, and the wind combs the grass flat, leaving little eddies of sand to curl around the marble headstones.
In the distance, the sea is a continuous pulse, rolling and receding, without fail.
The funeral procession is reverent. There are dozens of cars following the hearse, gliding like black swans.
Nathan parks at the edge of the drive, then circles around to help Cassie out.
She’s wearing Sara’s old navy blue sweater, the sleeves bunched at her wrists, and I can’t decide if the gesture is heartbreakingly sweet or just heartbreaking.
I climb out slowly, giving myself time to adjust to the quiet, the sudden absence of structure that comes after a ceremony.
The casket is already in place, balanced on the hydraulic frame above an open rectangle of earth. The hole itself is too neat, its corners knife-sharp, as if the world is refusing to accept what’s about to be taken from it. A scattering of mourners clusters in a loose, uneasy circle.
Jack stands at the back of the crowd, hands clasped in front of him. He holds a single white rose, its stem wrapped in green tape. The flower looks impossibly delicate, a dare against the wind.
Pastor Frank waits for everyone to assemble before starting.
He keeps it brief—Sara would have wanted it that way.
He speaks of journeys, of salt and sand and the promise of homecomings.
He reads a passage from Ecclesiastes, the one about seasons and purposes, and then invites us all to say our private goodbyes.
People step forward in ones and twos, placing their hands on the casket or dropping flowers onto the lid.
Cassie goes first, rolling the moon shell between her palms before laying it at the head of the coffin.
She presses her cheek to the wood, lips moving in a silent promise, then steps aside with a resolve I wish I could borrow.
Nathan follows, silent as ever. He places a single yellow wildflower, plucked from the lot behind the church, and stands at attention before moving away. Judy, sniffling, leaves a note folded in half and weighted with a pebble.
I amble up last, palms empty, pockets empty, the only thing I have to offer already buried somewhere deep inside me.
I rest my fingertips on the wood, feeling the chill through the lacquer.
I picture Sara’s hands, the stories they told, the secrets they held.
I want to say something profound, but all that comes is “Thank you. For making me brave. For making me honest.”
By the time I step back, the crowd has thinned. Some people are drifting to their cars, others forming huddles at the edge of the grass, as if waiting for instructions that never arrive. Only Jack remains by the casket, shoulders squared, the rose trembling in his grip.
He waits until the last stragglers are gone, then steps forward with the deliberation of someone carrying a precious artifact. He lays the rose on the center of the lid, his hand lingering on the petals, thumb stroking the curve of the bloom. He bows his head, not in prayer but in surrender.
I watch from a respectful distance, unwilling to intrude. The wind picks up, and Jack straightens. For a moment, he appears twenty years younger. He turns, catching my eye, and nods. There’s no need for more words. The gesture says everything.
He passes by me on his way out, hands jammed into his pockets. “Take care of yourself,” he says, voice low.
“You too. And safe travels.”
He disappears down the gravel path, his silhouette shrinking against the endless sky.
The groundskeepers arrive, ready to finish the job. I don’t move, not yet. I stand at the edge of the grave as the casket begins its slow descent. The rose bounces once, twice, then settles atop the lid, its white petals stark against the pale wood.
Cassie appears at my elbow, her hand slipping into mine. She doesn’t speak, but I can feel the thrum of her grief, steady and strong. Together, we watch as the earth swallows the casket, as the world heals itself around the wound.
When it’s done, we walk to the bluff and look out over the ocean. The wind is fierce here, blowing salt into our eyes, stinging away the last of the tears. In the distance, the horizon is a razor line, dividing what was from what will be.
“I think she’d like it here,” Cassie says.
“Me too,” I tell her.
We stand for a while, saying nothing, letting the sound of the waves fill the spaces where words used to live. After a time, the sun sinks low, painting the water with streaks of fire. I breathe in the briny air, feeling the weight in my chest begin, finally, to lift.
When we walk back to the car, I look over my shoulder. The grave is just another patch of earth now, the headstone a clean, blank promise awaiting the chisel. I picture Sara’s smile, her stubborn spirit, the wild love that refused to be measured by any rule of reason.
In the hush of that twilight, I sense her everywhere: in the wind, in the restless surf, in the steady heartbeat of the girl at my side. And I am reminded that life goes on. But it never goes back.