My eyes catch on a flash of purple, and my breath catches on an invisible hook in my throat. It’s way too early for the appearance of butterflies, and yet a small purple one makes a single loop in front of my face and then flutters down to rest on the petal of an orchid. Mama loved butterflies, and purple was her favorite color.
“I see you,” I whisper, looking down at the tiny veins on the wings of the insect. “I’m glad you’re at peace now and no longer in pain, though I miss you so damn much already.”
My fingers find Mama’s pearls around my neck, the ones she only wore for Easter, weddings, and funerals. “I’ll be okay though,” I promise because I know that’s what she would want more than anything. I’m not exactly solid on the actual logistics of the wholebeing okaything, but I’m going to do my damnedest.
The butterfly rises and hovers for a few seconds before fluttering its delicate wings and flying off to the west, as if that’s what she was waiting for.
“I love you, Mama,” I say into the wind. “Tell Daddy I love him too.”
Then I wipe my face one more time and walk toward the truck.
Erica scrubs down the counter in my mother’s kitchen while Caroline and I cover pans of leftover food. It’s been five hours since the burial, and everyone has come and gone. Except for these beautiful people who are like a second family to me.
“Honey, why don’t you go sit down?” Erica chides for the fiftieth time.
I shoot her a smile. “I’d rather keep busy.”
She nods and moves on to cleaning the stove top that’s already sparkling. “What else can we do to help? I know the new family is moving in here in a couple weeks, so do you need help packing?”
My chest is bursting with gratefulness. “That would be great. I have a lot of it done already because Mama insisted on arranging the sale before… you know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud.
Erica’s brown eyes are sympathetic and warm. “She told me. She wanted to get all her affairs in order as much as possible so you wouldn’t have so much to do.”
I tick through the list of things I need to get done to settle Mama’s estate. She’d left everything to me in her will, so you’d think things would be fairly simple, but this is the thing no one tells you about death. While you’re navigating your grief like scaling a scarily high mountain, someone is throwing rocks at you. Probate. Packing. Lawyers. Going through all the deceased’s things and deciding what to keep, sell, or donate.
Pew. Pew. Pew.Like a multitude of projectiles coming right at you, one after another, threatening to knock you off your perch.
“I think I’ve decided to sell my car and keep Mama’s for myself,” I announce, clearing the cobwebs of sorrow from my throat. “She was so proud of it, and I just can’t bring myself to sell it.”
Caroline bumps me with her hip. “Not to mention, she bought it a couple months before her diagnosis, so it’s only a year old. And in way better shape than your old clunker.”
“Why are you so hard on Kendra the Kia?” I ask, a tease in my tone.
“Because it has literal rust spots on the hood, and you have to add water to the radiator at least every fifty miles.”
Before I can come back with a retort, Brayden and Phil enter thekitchen. “We put some WD-40 on the gate outside,” Phil says, brandishing the bright blue can like a weapon ready to conquer any metal objects that dare to need lubricating. “You got anything else that’s squeaking in here?”
“Pantry door,” Erica calls immediately. “Mindy’s decided to sell her car and keep Ciara’s. Do you know anyone, Phil?”
He hands his phone to his wife. “I got a guy. He’s got a used car lot in south Houston. Number’s in my phone under Reed.” Then he begins working on the pantry door hinge, looking at me over his shoulder with a wink. “He’s a good egg and won’t screw you over, hon.”
“Thank you,” I tell him appreciatively. “I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.”
“You’d have squeaky hinges and a rust bucket car,” Caroline pipes up, and I roll my eyes at her.
“Ah, here we are,” Erica says to Phil’s phone screen.
I pull out my own phone and make a new contact for Reed while she calls out the number. My eye catches on a name, and I frown.
“Who’s Remi?”
“Who?” Caroline questions, and I turn my phone for her to see the name I don’t recognize.
I shake my head. “Remi. I don’t think I know a Remi.” Flipping the screen back toward me, I click on the name, but there’s no other information. Only the name and number.
“Just text backNew phone. Who dis?”
That draws a genuine laugh from me, but it’s short-lived. It seems wrong to laugh on a day like this.
