Three weeks ago, we felt like life had ended for us, as well, and it has been hard to see through the thick fog, wondering if we will see a clear, bright day again. But, little by little, each day, we spot hints of light poking through the clouds, reminding us, our worlds will continue forward.
"I’m plugging back in today," I announce as we sip coffee from our matching mugs.
"I did the same the other day for a bit," Journey says. "It felt like a little piece of normal. The guilt only lasted for a few minutes."
We had shut off our phones, needing space to clear our minds and thoughts. We weren’t ready for the empathetic calls and visits after the funeral. The three of us needed to heal together. No one else could fill that role during this time.
Daily arrangements of flowers and fruit baskets appeared on our doorstep, and cards expressing condolences. We took walks. We drove away from town just to sit in the car and watch the world as we passed by. We watched old movies and thumbed through photo albums, and we celebrated Thanksgiving on a blanket in front of Dad’s headstone at the cemetery as we shared memories of all prior Thanksgivings. We laughed, we smiled, we began to heal.
"I think it will be a good thing for you to get back into your work," Mom says.
"I’m also going down to The Barrel House to pitch in wherever needed. I know it’s been a few weeks, but I’m still planning to find my place there."
Journey places her mug down on the table. "I think we need to talk about this," she says.
"What is there to talk about?" I ask.
Journey and Mom share a look, one telling me they have had prior conversations about The Barrel House without me. "Dad left the business to us, fifty-fifty, but as hard as this is for me to say—my dream does not entail spending all of my time inside of The Barrel House, Melody."
I knew this conversation was coming. I knew I’d have to tell her it wasn’t my dream either, but it’s something I feel strongly about doing. "So, what now? If you don’t want to continue the business, I’m forced to give up my fifty percent?"
"No, of course not," Mom says. "It means Journeycansell her fifty percent, though."
"How can you think about doing this? Dad has been gone only three weeks, and you’re ready to throw away everything he spent his life working for? Do you need the money or something?” I know my comment is unwarranted but, I don’t understand how she can think this way with how much pain we’ve been suffering through.
"This is not about the money, Melody. God, I don’t want the money. It doesn’t belong to me. I’ll put it in a trust for this family or something, I don’t know ... I only know I can’t walk in the path of Dad’s shoes every day and somehow figure out how to continue with my life."
I’m trying to understand, but everything she is saying will be a comfort to me when it’s a painful feeling for her. "I would buy your share if I had the money," I mutter.
"And do what? Run a bourbon shop after tasting the stuff two or three times?"
"Okay, okay," Mom says, waving her hands at us both to settle down. "This isn’t getting resolved by arguing. Melody, you are welcome to do whatever it is your heart desires with your share, but it’s only fair if Journey has the same option."
I push away from the table, bring my coffee mug to the sink, rinse the contents, and leave without a goodbye.Goodbyes are not necessary anymore, anyway.
It’s been just over two weeks since I spoke to Brett briefly at the funeral. He promised to keep things running at the shop while I took the time I needed. I’m not the type to shut the world out when I’m suffering, but the type of grief I had made me disconnect the power of all sources to the outside world. It was the way I needed to come to terms with life and death.
The comfort of being in Dad’s truck makes me feel like he’s here, watching over me, sitting in the passenger seat. There is a worn indentation from his body in thechair and it holds me like a glove. Why wouldn’t Journey want to hold on to this feeling? His presence isn’t dead—just his body.
After keeping a distance from The Barrel House these last few weeks, I’m surprised to see twinkling Christmas lights framing the front firehouse garage doors—the doors will remain closed until summer. Dad would always spend the day after Thanksgiving, bringing the shop to life with lights and holiday decor. It was one of his favorite times of the year.
Inside, there’s a light hum of Christmas music, and scents of pine fill the shop. Dad always placed live pine trees in each corner of the shop to bring in the natural scent until he sold out of Quinn Pine every winter season.
Brett is behind the counter, adhering labels to a box of bottles. Judging by the look on his face, he seems surprised to see me, which I can understand. There is no set rule on how long it takes a person to grieve enough to be able to face the public again.
He places the bottle he’s holding down and walks around the counter to greet me. "I’m not going to ask how you’re doing, but I’m glad to see you," he says.
"You made the shop look like he decorated," I tell him, still taking in my surroundings.
"I hope that’s okay," Brett says, holding his arms crossed over his chest. He seems nervous or uneasy, maybe. He’s probably looking at me like I’m a fragile piece of glass, ready to shatter with one slight jolt.
"It’s more than okay.” It’s comforting and I sigh with a sound of relief.
"Phew," he says. "I didn’t want to—"
"It’s perfect," I cut him off.
"What can I do? I need to get my feet wet," I tell him. "I’m past the point of sitting around staring at a wall. I need to keep busy now."
