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Sophie

Three Years Later

Thehumidsummerbreeze blows through my hair as I stand before my late husband's grave at the Fort Bragg Cemetery. Our nearly three-year-old daughter, Samantha, is holding my hand. This is the first time we've visited Sam's grave. Each year I’ve told myself I’d bring Samantha here, but I just couldn’t bring myself to book the flights. I wanted to remember Sam alive and strong, full of life. I was worried this would ruin that.

The past three years have been overwhelming. Just the thought of seeing Sam’s grave again made me shudder. I could barely manage getting through the end of my pregnancy and put a smile on my face for baby showers with the sadness I faced every day. It felt like darkness clouded my brain and I couldn’t even think straight most days.

Until Samantha was born.

She was the sunshine I needed to make the fog clear from my mind. Taking care of her brought me joy and gave me the strength to get out of bed each day—and several times in the middle of the night. She gave me the courage to see a therapist and to work through my grief over losing Sam. Things aren’t perfect, and I still struggle at times, but I’ve implemented everything my therapist suggested—except for taking Samantha to visit Sam’s grave. Deep down, I don’t think I wanted to visit Sam until he could be proud of me, proud of how I’m doing.

Not that I would ever admit that out loud; it would sound ridiculous to anyone else.

But I’ve felt more like myself this year. Starting my new teaching job helped a lot; it’s been a great outlet for me to have my own thing, outside of being a mom and a widow. So I knew this was the year I’d finally be ready to visit his grave. I’m finally ready to face this and get the closure I need.

Samantha is oblivious to the loss of the man she never met; instead; she’s entranced by two blue jays nearby, watching them land on one of the crosses a few yards away from us.

"Hi Sam," I say as I sit in front of his tombstone.

"I can't believe it's been three years since you passed." I swallow and brush a blonde curl off of Samantha's forehead.

"Sorry it took me so long to bring Samantha to meet you. I've been back in Kansas with my family." It feels weird to talk to a stone cross, but I hope this message will get to him. Samantha smiles up at me. She’s probably a little confused about why I’m speaking to an inanimate object.

"I named her after you. Samantha is her given name, but everyone calls her Sam … or Sammy girl.” A smile forms on my lips, thinking of the endearing nickname my family has given her. “She's the best gift you could have ever given me."

I'm trying to be strong, but a lone tear escapes down my cheek.

"I miss you so much, Sam. But I remember the conversation we had before you left." I pause.

"Do you remember? You made me promise you I would move forward with my life if anything happened to you. So I started teaching last fall, third grade. I love it so much. I know you’d be proud of me. Samantha and I are still staying with my parents. They’ve been so great." A breathy chuckle escapes from my throat. “I mean, my mom is still pretty overbearing, but I’m grateful for their help.”

Bending down on one knee, I pull Samantha into a hug and kiss her chubby cheek. "I know you'd want us to be happy. And I want to be happy again. I’m really trying, Sam.” More tears run down my face. “I miss you so much it hurts. I will never stop loving you."

Unsure of what else to say, I open the backpack I brought, pull out a picnic blanket, and spread it out on the grass in front of Sam's grave while Samantha runs in and out of the stone crosses like she’s in an obstacle course. I unpack our lunch and try to put our picnic together quickly before Samantha gets too crazy, but once she sees the cookies I brought, she stops and runs back toward me.

I can't help but smile at her. She's obsessed with food.

She's been the happiest, sweetest child ever. I wish she would have inherited Sam's brown hair and eyes, or even his olive complexion, but she looks just like me instead. With light-blonde curls and large blue eyes. My mom said my hair was curly when I was a baby too, but now it barely has any wave to it.

Running my fingers through her ringlets, I look back at the stone cross with the name "Samuel P. Miller " on it. I wonder if he can see us, or experience this moment with us somehow.

I hope he can.

Little Sam stuffs a cookie into her mouth, and I roll my eyes, thinking of what my mother would say if she were here. Mom is already trying to teach her to be more ladylike. I love my mom, but her tendency to be in control is just one of many reasons I need some more independence.

I don't know what I would've done without my parents' help these past few years, but going from living across the country with my husband to moving back into my parent's house has had its trials.

Samantha and I finish our little picnic and I gently lay my hand on Sam's cross and whisper, "Goodbye."

That evening, Samantha and I walk through the door at my parents’ house in Wichita, Kansas, after a bumpy and miserable flight. I’m exhausted after wrestling my tantrum-throwing daughter during the flight. And ignoring the glaring businessman who was unfortunately seated next to us.

Mom and Dad have obviously been waiting for us, meeting me and Sam at the door with big grins on their faces. Little Sam lights up as soon as she sees her grandparents.

My parents’ normally prim and proper demeanors completely change the closer they come to Samantha.

My dad crouches down and hugs her, then Mom squeezes her fingers together playfully, an odd mixture between crab claws and spirit fingers. “Tickle monster is coming to get my Sammy girl!”

They look ridiculous, but Samantha loves it and claps her hands together with glee and yells, “Gramma! Poppy!”