Chapter 9 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
Almost two years after Eleanor died, Daniel asked me to go to Bellweather House.
We took Lily.
The green bench was still beneath the crooked apple tree.
Lily ran toward it.
“Grandma Ellie's chair!”
Daniel stopped.
For several seconds he couldn't move.
I didn't touch him.
Sometimes love is knowing when not to.
Eventually he walked over.
He sat.
Lily climbed beside him.
“Did Grandma Ellie sit here?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Did she like me?”
Daniel looked at her.
“She loved you.”
Lily smiled.
Then she asked the question children ask because nobody has taught them which questions adults fear.
“Did you cry when she died?”
Daniel looked toward the tree.
“Yes.”
“Do you still cry?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because I miss her.”
Lily considered that.
“Mommy misses people too.”
“I know.”
“Grown-ups cry a lot.”
Daniel laughed.
“We really do.”
Lily climbed down.
Then she ran toward the garden.
Daniel and I remained on the bench.
“I spent a year trying to forget this place,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I thought remembering her meant remembering what I did wrong.”
“You didn't do what you thought you did.”
“I still silenced the call.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
I didn't lie to make him feel better.
“But you were human.”
He nodded.
“I wish I'd answered.”
“I know.”
“I'll always wish I'd answered.”
“I know that too.”
The wind moved through the apple branches.
“Does it ever stop hurting?” he asked.
“No.”
He looked surprised.
I continued.
“I think it just stops being the only thing the memory contains.”
He looked toward Lily.
She was trying to convince a nurse that Mr. Buttons required a medical examination.
Daniel smiled.
“It doesn't only hurt anymore.”
There it was.
Not forgetting.
Not closure.
Something better.
Room.
May you like
Grief had finally made room for everything else.
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