Usually, I roll my eyes and scroll past, thinking that people who post that crap are trying to convince the world—and themselves—that they’re deep. But I didn’t thumb by this morning. Instead, I sat and stared at the post for a long time.
It wasn’t the first line that struck me. Duh. There’s no big epiphany there. It was the second line that held my attention.
How theheckdo you make peace with the death of someone you’ve loved with your whole heart? How is not being able to see them, talk to them, hug themeverokay?
I know from experience that it’s possible to come toacceptdeath. My folks are gone. They’re never coming back. I acknowledge this on every level. Butmake peacewith it?
No.
Never.
The pain will always be there. The anger at the unfairness of it all will always be there. There’s no peace for those left living. But thereisstill comfort. Happiness. There’s stilllove.
If we’re lucky, that’s enough to get us through.
I’m in the middle of polishing a pilsner glass when this thought occurs, and my eyes naturally track over to Luc.
He’s positioning a giant photo of Cash on a tripod atop the little stage in the corner of the bar. This afternoon, I cleared out the tourists and regulars and hung a handmade sign on the door that reads, “Closed for a private event.”
Cash didn’t want a traditional funeral. But his will said nothing about a memorial service.
Luc feels my gaze and turns to me. He doesn’t need to say anything about how sad this day is, or how much he loves me. It’s all there in his eyes.
I blow him a kiss and imagine it lands softly on his lips. That makes him smile. Makes those dimples pop.
Auntie June once told me you can tell a lot about a man from his smile. I thought it was horse hockey at the time. But now I’m not so sure.
Looking at Cash’s picture—a photo Luc snapped on his phone a couple of months ago and had blown up for the occasion—I can see the mischief in the tilt of his lips, the devilishness in the curves of his cheeks, and the mystery of him in the flash of his teeth. Cash was a complex individual. Inscrutable until the end.
I don’t doubt that he loved me. But I’ve come to realize I never actuallyknewhim. Not thewholeof him. There were always parts he kept locked away, secret from the world.
In contrast, Luc’s smile is as open as the summer sky. So warm, so true, with a whole lot of love and a little bit of wildness thrown in for good measure. It’s a smile that warms my soul at the same time it turns my whole body into melted goo. A smile I could stare at for the rest of my life without ever getting tired of it.
A smile Iintendto stare at for the rest of my life.
My man.
It’s a simple phrase, and yet the enormity of it hits me with hurricane-force winds. Luc ismyman. He’smine. Heart and body and soul. Nothing withheld. Nothing hidden.
And I’m his.
His woman.
If there’s any peace in this life, there’s peace inthat. In the certainty of it. The security and serenity of it.
They say a good man is hard to find. But not in my case. He was right in front of me the whole time.
“You think we’ll be getting our letters today?” I ask as I line up shot glasses on the bar and uncap two bottles of Gentleman Jack.
After the lawyer finished reading Cash’s will, I said something about how sad it was that those words, words more full of legal mumbo jumbo than of heart, would be the last we’d ever hear from Cash. Toussaint was quick to correct me. “That’s not true. Mr. Armstrong told me he wrote each of you a letter and gave it into the keeping of someone close to you. I expect you’ll be receiving them soon enough.”
“I reckon so,” Luc says now. “Everyone who was close to himorus is gonna be here, and it seems like the time to do it.”
“I bet he gave them to your mom.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
Before I can speculate more, the front door opens, and Jean-Pierre pushes inside. He’s dressed in jeans and a green flannel shirt. Since Cash hated dressing up, I didn’t suppose he’d think much of people roaming around his memorial service in somber suits and dresses. So on the announcement, I wrote,Come in your favorite flannel.
