I wake before my alarm,the house still cloaked in a fragile quiet that only exists right before dawn.
Today has been looming for weeks, weighing heavily on my mind.
Exactly one year ago, I watched as my wife was wheeled into an operating room so four strangers could have a second chance at life.
I’d rather mark the day with something Cora loved. Ice skating with the kids. Sledding until our fingers are numb. Decorating cookies with far too much frosting and sprinkles.
Instead, we’ll spend the morning in a church pew, followed by a reception hosted by my father-in-law, where he’ll keep an eagle eye on everyone to make sure they’re grieving the way he’d want them to.
To make sureI’mgrieving the way he wants me to.
I understand why he needs this. This is his way of honoring Cora’s memory.
At first, I thought it’s how I needed to honor her memory, too. Go to church services. Leave flowers at her grave. Mourn her every day.
And I do.
But I don’t feel the need to put it on display.
I pad downstairs and start the coffee, the soft gurgle and hiss filling the kitchen. I run a hand over my face as I clear the proverbial cobwebs from yet another night of broken sleep. As I do, I glance out the window, spying a figure on the front porch.
Rowan’s sitting on the swing, wrapped in a sweater, the rising sun painting her in soft gold. She looks peaceful. Serene.
Like nothing bad can ever touch her.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
It’s been happening more and more lately, my body reacting to her before my brain can remind me why it shouldn’t.
Weeks ago, she was a stranger I struggled to trust.
Now she’s threaded through our lives so seamlessly I can’t remember what the house felt like before her laugh echoed through it.
Jemmy lights up whenever she walks into a room, all smiles and giggles. He’s not the only one, either. Presley’s smiling again, especially when cooking with Rowan, both of them dancing to whatever music has captured their attention.
Lately, it’s been Taylor Swift.
I’ve never had an opinion about her music, but nowI look forward to coming home just to hear Rowan belting “Shake It Out” at the top of her lungs as she dances with my daughter.
There have been a few times I was convinced Presley was about to start singing with her.
She hasn’t yet, but that doesn’t matter.
Rowan’s teaching my daughter how to be heard again.
Despite my father-in-law’s argument against Presley learning sign language, I agreed to let Rowan teach her. Presley’s therapist believes it’s a step in the right direction.
I think it is, too.
After my coffee finishes brewing, I prepare a second cup the way Rowan takes it. Then I pull my Northwestern sweatshirt over my head and step onto the porch.
“Do you mind some company?” I ask, holding up a mug. “I brought you a coffee.”
“In that case, you’re more than welcome,” she replies with a smile, scooting over on the bench swing.
I sit beside her, our shoulders almost touching. The wood creaks softly as we rock, the scent of coffee mingling with pine and the cold morning air.
“I’ve never actually sat on this,” I admit.
