“I gave my copy to his mom. Thought she might need it more.” Silence stretches for a minute. “You want me to swing by later? Bring coffee? Talk about anything but bugs?”
I swipe under my eyes again and manage a watery grin. “I’ll be fine.”
He nods before rummaging through the pile of mail on his dash and handing me a few pieces: grocery flyer, bill I’ll pretend I didn’t see, and one addressed to Owen Lawson or Current Resident.
I blink, but it’s too late. The tears well up fast again.
“Some days it feels like it’s getting easier. And some days it doesn’t.” Noah’s voice wavers.
He doesn’t elaborate. I know he misses Owen too.
“You know… your fennel’s staging a coup.” Noah nods toward my front yard where the feathery green stalks sway like they own the place. “If the swallowtails are here, we need to spruce up the place for them.”
I know what he’s doing—offering me a lighthearted off-ramp from the emotional spiral currently attempting a triple axel in my chest. But he’s picked the wrong plant. My throat tightens, something curling low in my belly at the idea of anyone messing with the butterfly garden.
I’ve already made a public scene twice today, and I’m not ready to have a meltdown in my driveway for the neighbor's viewing pleasure. “I’ll see if I can talk them down. Maybe negotiate some peace terms.” My voice is smooth, steady. I am in control.
He leans in a little, mock-serious. “I could come by Saturday. Help you tame them. I’ve got hedge clippers strong enough to take on a jungle. Found a whole bicycle beneath the overgrowth in my cousin’s yard last spring.”
I glance at the wild sprawl of the fennel, then back at him. His dark hair is all clean lines and military precision, of course hecould conquer chaos. “I don’t think there’s a bike in there, but who knows. Could be some treasure.” I will make it through this conversation without crying.
“I’m happy to risk it, treasure or not. Friends don’t let friends get lost in their own flower jungle.”
It’s past time to trim the garden. Owen would be distraught over how chaotic I’ve let the space become. The HOA is distraught over it. That alone should be enough to push me to do something about it.
It’s the only space I’ve let fall apart since he died. Everything else, the house, the meals, the fundraisers, has stayed perfectly intact. But the garden? That’s where I let it go. “That’s nice of you.”
He shrugs, easy and unbothered. “Offer stands. Only don’t blame me if I decapitate a zinnia.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, go be a civil servant.”
He lifts two fingers in a mock salute, puts the vehicle in gear, and drives off down the street. I watch for a moment, comforted by the familiar site.
Turning into the driveway, I pause, inhaling and steadying myself like I do each time a memory surfaces and makes it harder to step into the empty house.
I kick off my shoes at the front door. At the one-month mark, I forced myself to move his shoes into the garage.
I make my way down the hallway. At the three-month mark, I removed the pictures of him from the hallway, because it was too painful to have them greet me instead of his face every time I opened the door.
I grab my coffee mug from the cupboard so I can pour myself another cup. At the six-month mark, I boxed up his favorite coffee mug, the “butterflies are the new birds” one with a chip on the handle that he swore tasted better than any other cup in the cabinet.
I don’t bother sitting at the table, just pop a piece of bread inthe toaster and eat while I stand in the kitchen. At the nine-month mark, I stopped setting his place at the table by accident.
At the one-year mark, I gave away his old college T-shirts, all except the one I’m wearing—because I realized they didn’t smell like him anymore, just like me pretending.
There’s no guidebook for how to evict a ghost gently. Grief moves in and takes up every room, and the only way to reclaim the house is one tender eviction at a time.
Some days are getting better. But today isn’t one of those days.
Wanting nothing more than to wallow in the wreckage of memories that assaulted me this morning, I force myself to change into something slightly more socially acceptable. A plain black t-shirt and dark leggings. Color just feels like it’s asking too much on an Anise Swallowtail sighting day.
I rush to the bookshelf, wishing someone had disrupted my color-coded system. When reorganizing by publishing date doesn’t work, I run a cloth over the invisible dust on the already spotless surfaces in the living room. Then I’m straightening the shoes and sweeping nonexistent crumbs.
My phone buzzes on the counter as I’m settling in to scroll through museum assistant or exhibition curator job positions I have no intention of acting on before going to another PTA meeting. I can go through the motions. I am going through the motions.
Harper: Coffee. 3 PM. No excuses. We’re making you a social media profile today. It’s tough love time. I love you xoxo
I don’t respond right away. Instead, I stare at the message like it’s a summons to jury duty. My daughter means well. But there’s something about the way she sayswe’re making you a profilethat makes me feel like I’m being dragged to my own execution.
