The funeral was small.
A fancy black car showed up at the graveside. Her aging parents and one brother climbed out. No one had to tell me who they were. I knew. There was only one wealthy family that would come to my mother’s burial.
They must be responsible for the large standing floral arrangement of perfect white roses.
They didn’t speak to anyone, but the woman’s gaze fell on me, curious, taking me in. She was my grandmother—a woman I’d never met. I thought she might approach. She looked like she wanted to speak to me, but when the last prayers were over, her husband took her hand and pulled her toward their car.
They disappeared from my life as quickly as they had come.
Once my mother was interred, we returned to our home.
A few of the neighborhood people were there with cakes and coffee. My father’s family came. Cousins I’d never met.
My black dress itched. At the age of seventeen, I never wore dresses. This one was purchased yesterday for the saddest day of my life.
The crowd that filled our small house seemed to be everywhere I turned, and claustrophobia set in. When it all got too much for me, I slipped out the back door and walked to the gazebo in the park across the street. It was a rickety old thing that no one used anymore.
I sat gingerly on the bench, not wanting to snag the fabric. I don’t know why I was so careful; I would never wear the dress again. Sadness had seeped into the very threads. I’d never look at this dress and not feel the overwhelming grief of this day.
Movement across the grassy park caught my eye.
A man approached, coming directly from our house across the street.
I knew him immediately.
Sully Bossier. My two older brothers’ best friend. He’d been a part of our world since I was in pigtails. The three of them had been like the Three Musketeers.
He wore black pants and a white dress shirt. I think he had a jacket on at the service, but I don’t remember.
His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands were in his trouser pockets as he strolled toward me. The tie was gone, and his shirt collar was unbuttoned.
The breeze ruffled his dark hair. His eyes were a rich caramel brown, and his swarthy skin revealed his Cajun roots.
When he reached me, his eyes roved over me.
“You okay, Six?”
He’d called me by that nickname since the day my father taught me to ride a dirt bike. I’d lasted six seconds before I fell over.
I shook my head.
He shifted on his feet, and I wondered if he had no clue how to make any of this better. How could he? How could anyone?
But then he did the thing I needed most.
He sat next to me, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and pulled me against his chest.
He didn’t speak, and I didn’t want to talk.
I cried into his shirt, and he just held me and let me feel all the pain and grief of losing the woman who gave me life.
Eventually, I knew I had to pull myself together.
Sully slipped a white handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to me.
In all these years, I’d never seen him in anything but jeans, but here he was dressed up and prepared with a handkerchief at the ready, being everything I needed him to be in that moment.
I dried my eyes.
