I smile, feeling a little of my grandmother’s spirit back with me in that story. “I bet she had him wrapped around her finger in the end.”
“Dottie’s gonna be thrilled you’re here. Don’t let her talk your ear off, though. She can be a bit much.”
I smile, though it feels weak on my lips. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
With that, I leave Granger’s Goods feeling a strange sense of connection, as though Bill’s stories have pulled me a little closer to a version of Evie I never got to know.
As I walk out into the crisp air, I’m carrying more than just her ashes now. A piece of her seems to have settled inside me.
I try to shake off the tightness in my chest as I head toward the Lookout Trail. It’s getting late, the sun hanging low, ready to disappear behind the mountains, but I’m not in a hurry. The day has a sense of finality to it, and I’m here to honor that.
The path winds upward, and I breathe in deep, filling my lungs with the sharp scent of pine and the distant promise of rain. The quiet of the trail is comforting. I can hear the softrustling of leaves, the occasional chirp of a bird. It’s peaceful in a way that feels like it’s been waiting for me.
My steps are slow, my thoughts scattered as I try to keep my mind from spiraling too deep.
I reach the summit just as the sky is starting to paint itself in shades of gold and purple. The sun hovers, uncertain whether it wants to leave just yet. It feels sacred up here.
The mountains stretch out before me, vast and wild. I take a few minutes to just stand there, breathing it all in, feeling the pressure of what I’ve come here to do.
Then I hold the urn out, my hands trembling slightly. It feels heavier now, though it’s the same as when I held it in the car. I grip it carefully, my fingers tracing the edge as I look out over the valley, trying to picture Evie’s face, her voice.
I close my eyes and speak into the wind, almost whispering to the trees and the sky.
“I brought you home, Evie.”
I finally unscrew the lid, and the ashes slip out slowly, drifting in the wind because they want to fly away. I let go, feeling her leave me in pieces, knowing that this is it.
The end.
Evie was there for me, had always been there for me. Even when I didn’t feel I had anyone else.
Mom isn’t emotional, not at all. I don’t always know how she came from Evie. And my dad… well, he hasn’t exactly been much of a feature in my life.
But my grandmother was my constant.
I remember the way she used to sit at the kitchen table, her hands folded in front of her, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the room. She’d sip her tea slowly, savoring the warmth of it, and if you were lucky enough to catch her in one of her rare moods, she’d tell you a story. Not just any story, though. Theywere full of lessons, of wisdom she’d gained through living a life no one else could understand.
I think of that time she took me aside when I was younger, just before I left for a summer camp I didn’t want to go to. I was terrified, convinced I wouldn’t fit in, that I’d screw it all up. She told me something I’ll never forget:
“People will always try to make you small, Rory. They’ll push you into corners that don’t fit, and they’ll try to tell you that it’s your fault for not conforming. But don’t you dare let them. You’ve got kindness in you, but you’ve also got an edge. Don’t ever forget that.”
She wasn’t wrong. I had learned to navigate the world by watching her. She didn’t just show love and kindness. She demanded it in her quiet, powerful way.
She had a sharp mind and a sharp tongue, but she always used them for something good. I can’t even remember the number of times she helped someone. Often without them even realizing she had, weaving herself into their lives like some kind of quiet hero.
The tears come then, unexpected, because I thought I was ready. I thought I’d be stronger. But the reality of her absence is sharper than I imagined. She’s not here anymore. She won’t ever be again.
I breathe through it, steadying myself. Grief is an unwelcome companion, but it’s the only one that’s ever been honest. I let the last of the ashes fall, the wind picking them up as they scatter over the mountain below. A small part of me wonders if they’ll float all the way to the town, to the people who loved her.
Maybe she’ll still be there, in the air, in the memories, in the stories Bill shared with me.
When it’s done, I sit there for a while, the sunset painting the sky with its last defiant streaks of light. I pull out my wallet and find the small collection of “good things” I’ve been gatheringover the years. A pressed flower from a hike in the Rockies. A coffee sleeve with a note from a stranger who bought me a drink when I needed it most. A ticket stub from a play I went to when I was feeling lost.
I slide the small slip of paper from the urn into the collection. It doesn’t seem to belong, but it does, somehow. I fold it carefully and tuck it in among the other tiny fragments of the life I’m still trying to put together.
The trail is silent, and the sky has begun to darken. It’s colder now, but I feel a little lighter. A little less burdened. It’s the strangest thing, this grief. It comes in waves, but maybe that’s part of learning to live with it.
I stand up, taking one last look over the town, and then I start my walk back down the trail. The sun’s finally gone, and the cool dusk has settled over everything. But even as I walk away from the mountain, I can’t help but feel like everything inside me has shifted. I’m not sure what’s waiting for me here in Coyote Glen.
