Epilogue Jenn
Epilogue
Jenn
One year later
Gabe is holding my hand tightly as we approach the wrought iron gates.
Identical twin cherubs rest on either side of the entrance, as if standing guard over the souls within.
I rather like that idea, I decide, as our rental car crawls along, passing row after row of headstones, periodically punctuated by a mausoleum.
I spot the mimosa tree right away.
“There,” I tell him, stretching my arm to point. “Over there on the right. Across from the spigot.”
He nods, gliding to a stop at the curb, and then turns to me. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Because you don’t have to do this. We can try again later. Or tomorrow. Or another time.”
I smile at him and then lean across the console to give him a kiss. When we separate, he presses a warm palm against my cheek.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“For always making sure I have a safety net. You make me want to be brave.”
“No wanting about it,” he murmurs. “You are brave, Jenn. Always have been.”
I chuckle, starting to unbuckle my seat belt. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s only taken me twentysomething years to get here. And I’m not even out of the car yet. This might still go south.”
“Say the word, and we’re gone.”
My answer is to open the door and step out, shutting it firmly behind me. I wait while he exits his side, comes around, and offers his hand once more.
I take it.
We walk down the carpet of thick Bermuda grass, past the resting places of strangers.
They are, in some odd way, neighbors of my grandparents, whose plot sits almost at the end of the row under the mimosa tree.
This is the first time I’ve visited them in this place.
The headstone is a smooth granite adorned with a carving of hands clasped in prayer against a cross.
The epitaph reads simply, Forever in our hearts.
Below it are first Lito’s name, birth, and death dates, followed by Lita’s.
At the bottom the same information has been carved out for their daughter. My mother.
Gabe steps back reverently, just far enough to give me my space, just close enough to let me know he’s there.
I stand there for several long seconds as tears begin to slip down my cheeks.
I use a hand to wipe them, then kiss the still-damp fingertips before pressing them to the cold face of the stone.
Only then do I sidestep to the smaller memorial, the one with the carved angel.
I drop onto my haunches in front of it, reaching out to run a finger along the grooves of her name, Jessica Maria Flores.
Below her dates is the inscription I know by heart, though I’ve never laid eyes on it before this moment:
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.
When I look back over my shoulder at Gabe, he hands me the small spade we brought with us.
I use it to dig a small hole right at the base of my sister’s headstone.
Then, reaching up under my sleeve, I hook a finger over the pink elastic band on my wrist to slip it off.
Once I’ve tucked it into the hole, I use my hands to push the bit of displaced soil back over it, patting the ground until it’s smooth.
Standing again, I dust off my hands and rest them loosely across the soft swell of my midsection—one settling there, almost without my permission.
A small, unconscious gesture of protection. Of promise.
It remains there as I smile down at my sister’s grave, saying a silent prayer that it’s not her final resting place. That, someday, I will come to her, and we will be together again in death, as we were meant to be in life.
“I love you, Jess,” I whisper.
And then I just let go.