In my mind, I can still see the porch rockers and musical wind chimes hanging on the front porch. Our little herb garden and a windmill spinning in the breeze. The cherry trees I started from pits, and the doggy playground I created for my last dog, before Molly. My copper rain chain that looked like a waterfall during thunderstorms. The giant boulders at the end of the driveway.
My college diploma and photography awards. Family cookbooks and recipes. My guitars. A wooden sign simply stating, “The Woodbury Home, established 2016.” My surfboards and a pencil rubbing of my grandparents’ names from Ellis Island. Kukui nut leis. Bongo drums.
Searing pain radiates from my temple as memories attack—brutal, rapid. I lean against the wall for support, my breath becoming shallow.
My home and family are gone. Everything but the memories. I couldn’t imagine leaving California. I couldn’t imagine ever losing my life, which was so perfect. A home filled with joy. Warmth. Comfort.
Love.The ache of it—unbearable in absence.
I let the loss flow unchecked, a familiar ache that always follows thoughts of them. Reality shatters me, dropping me to my knees as hot tears flood my cheeks. Molly senses the storm, gentlypressing her head into my lap, coaxing me through the waves of grief.
I loved the small California town where we lived for its elevation and mountain air. After the devastating wildfires took my wife and daughter from me, I felt like I was living in an apocalyptic nightmare. I had no desire to rebuild my life there.
I know I should feel lucky to be alive, but something inside of me died that day and can never be recovered. I miss my wife, Mia, and my precious eight-year-old daughter, Evie. My old dog, Brutus, and my mountain home away from the city. It sickens me that they didn’t make it. I was in LA working when it happened. I have nightmares thinking about them suffering. I haven’t been able to eat or sleep normally for two years. Nothing brings me pleasure anymore.
Keri asked me earlier if I’ve ever experienced grief. She had no idea how loaded her question was.
I wanted to tell her that grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s about missing them over and over, day in and day out. The loss is final. It’s the sharp break, the event, the moment everything changes forever. But missing is what lingers. Missing is every day after. Loss happens once. Missing happens forever.
And that’s where my grief lives. Not just in what was stolen from me, but in the longing for what will never be again. Grief has settled into my chest and deep inside my bones. Some days it feels like I’m a dead man, walking around with no purpose.
“I’m back!” Keri hollers from the doorway.
I don’t have the energy to stand, my hand running continuously through Molly’s thick fur, grounding me. It’s dark inside the home, Keri fumbling with several bags as she flicks a switch on the wall, igniting the overhead light. Relief flickers across her face but quickly collapses into disappointment as she surveys the room.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
I shake my head. “Just… taking it all in.”
She walks over to the couch and sets the bags on the cushions. Looking down at me, she asks, “Mind if I join you?”
“Be my guest.” My voice is barely a whisper, my eyes filling with tears again. Slowly, she lowers herself to the floor and leans her head against my shoulder. I’m thankful for her presence. Thankful she’s not hounding me with any questions.
A few minutes pass, and I hear her whisper, “I’m here for you, Adam.”
I watch her hand gently stroke Molly’s fur near mine. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I realize I want to stay where I am. Here, in Heartsboro, in Keri’s childhood home, with the moonlight streaming in through the windows. I don’t want to grieve anymore and burden Keriwith my sadness. It’s the cruelest twist of fate that the thing I’ve missed the most is something I don’t want to think about anymore.
I’ve missed having a place I fit in. A woman who likes me and wants me to stay. An antique sofa in horrendous green velvet. My dog fetching sticks on the bank of a babbling creek. The scent of lavender clinging to my clothes. But before I can truly exhale and relax in my new surroundings, I’ve got to dig deep and find a way to tell her I’m a widower and that I’ve lost my only child. But how?
Keri gently pats the top of my hand. “Did you hear me? I’m here for you.”
I drag my hand across Molly’s fur. “Sorry. I heard you. I’m listening.”
I flip my hand with my palm facing up. Keri takes the hint and presses her hand into mine. I squeeze, and for the first time in a long time, I feel tethered to what seems like a solid lifeline.
Chapter Ten
Keri
Adam doesn’t say much as we eat our dinner around the small, wobbly table in the kitchen. I bought some soda water and a six-pack of Mexican beer, grateful when he quietly chose beer, his shoulders loosening a fraction as he sipped. The tension shadowing his face finally seemed to ease, but I could still feel a nervous weight pressing down on my chest. I kept glancing at him, almost willing him to confide in me. Every time his phone buzzed with a message from Roxy, my anxiety spiked, twisting in my gut with fear that she was the cause of his sadness.
“This salsa is amazing,” he says, chomping on a heavily dipped chip.
I smile. “Best salsa around these parts. Mr. Garcia uses only fresh tomatoes grown at Jamison Farm. I can’t wait for you tomeet him. I’ve known him my entire life. Taco Tuesday at his restaurant was a staple growing up. One of my dad’s favorites.”
He offers a slight nod and continues to eat. I take a small sip from my beer bottle, hoping for some liquid courage. I’m stunned when the words I’ve wanted to say finally leave my mouth. “Adam, tell me about Roxy. Is she the reason you left California?”
