I look down at Liz’s concerned face. We came here as soon as we got off the plane.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
She glances skyward. “Think the rain will hold off?”
It wouldn’t matter anyway. Liz and I have weathered many rainy days on several of our annual visits to see Elizabeth Ann. A little rain won’t stop us from spending time with our girl.
“It’s Seattle,” I reply.
“True.” Liz smiles, and it’s like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through the thick gray clouds that hang above us.
Our footsteps slow when we get closer. Blooms of colorful flowers in various shades of yellows, blues, and purples create a beautiful watercolor canvas around the base of the granite pedestal that the statue stands upon. Liz must have planted them when she was here in June. It’s something we do…did…every year when we came.
“I like the flowers.”
Liz sets down her guitar and her large bag on the ground and takes out the quilted blanket.
“I decided to do indigos and yellows this year,” she says as I help her stretch the blanket out flat. Liz crouches in front of the headstone and kisses her fingertips, then touches Elizabeth Ann’s name. “Hey, baby girl, look who’s here.” Liz’s voice breaks just enough to unravel my guilt.
I hadn’t been here in three years. Three missed birthdays. Did she think I abandoned her? Didn’t love her anymore? I should’ve come sooner. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to get sober. I should have been stronger.
I drop to my knees on the damp grass. Wetness seeps through the fabric of my jeans, but I barely notice. My throat constricts as I read the “Butterfly Angel” poem carved into the placard of the statue.
…Even though you’ve been taken from me,
You go on. You breathe inside me…
My heart slowly bleeds out as each word slashes me like a paper cut, one after the other, until there are thousands. Even though I’ve read this poem a hundred times, it still knocks the breath out of me.
“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely, my gaze fixed on the headstone.
Liz sits beside me and quietly places a supportive hand over my clenched fists. “She knows, Jayson.”
A single tear falls down my cheek, and then another, until the tears come fast, hot, and ugly. The kind that you could drown in. “I should’ve been here. But I was…lost. Drinking too much. Trying not to feel anything. Hating myself. I broke my promise to you and your mom. I don’t know how to forgive myself.”
Liz’s arms band around me, her tears joining mine. “Her love is unconditional, and so is mine. We’re so proud of you, Jayson. So damn proud.”
I can only nod because the agony doesn’t lessen. I failed my daughters. Both of them.
Bending forward, I press my forehead to the headstone. Even though it’s cloudy, the stone is warm.
Looking up at the fairy princess, I whisper, “I love you, sweet girl.”
Liz takes out a trowel from her bag, along with a pair of gardening gloves.
“Did you bring one?”
“Yeah.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out three crumpled envelopes, one for each birthday I missed.
With slow, methodical movements, Liz digs up the weatherproof lockbox we buried next to the grave. For every year we would come, we would add one letter each. I don’t know what Liz writes to our daughter, but mine are usually filled with things I saw or did that I thought she’d like or about things I imagined we’d do together if she were alive.
Liz lifts the metal box from its hole and places it between us.
Wiping dirt from the latch, I unlock it and lift the lid. “We may have to get a bigger one,” I comment when a few letters spill out onto the ground.
Liz swiftly gathers the runaways before the strong breeze can carry them away. “We can pick up a new one tomorrow.”
She waits for me to add my letters before placing the one she brought on top.
