No one needed me.
There was nothing left to fix.
There was no one left to text.
And I wanted to push. Them.
Right
Over
The edge.
165.
now
I shrug off the pack and take out each item.
I line them up at the edge of the jump.
An apple sticker.
A baseball.
A plastic berry bucket.
A torn Verity napkin.
The running shoes are still on my feet.
Last of all, I take out the cross.
166.
once
I have a different story for you, my mother said once.
A different story about what?
About dying.
Mom, there’s no other story. You were right. We die. That’s it.
This is a story my dad told me that is also true. I just remembered it.
Can I tell it to you?
I didn’t say anything.
She waited. Then, when she heard that my crying was slowing down, she started in.
My dad—your grandpa—said dying was like being called in from playing outside on a summer’s night.
When you’re little, and you hear your parents calling you, and you’re out with your friends playing, or catching fireflies with your brother, or making nests for your stuffed animals out of the fresh-cut grass or kissing the person you like, you don’t want to come in. You can’t imagine ever wanting to come in.
But when you get older, and you’re tired, and you’re sitting on the porch, and you still love the stars but a lot of the people you love have already gone in, you don’t mind as much. Maybe you hear someone you miss very much calling you. So whenthey do, you stand up. You take one last look at the stars. Your heart is very full.
