Hurrying outside, I circle the house and head to the tree, the tire swing that Mirai cut down and left laying on the ground now gone.
I drop to my knees, light the candle and set it in the grass, giving me just enough light.
I start digging. Stabbing the grass, I work out a patch and keep slicing through the soil, making the hole wider and deeper. My belly churns, the box sitting there like a fucking bomb about to go off. I can’t believe they’re ashes.
Fucking ashes. They were so much before. Large. So important.
And now…they fit in a shoe box.
A fucking shoe box.
A sob escapes, but I swallow the rest down and toss the shovel away.
God.
Slowly, I open up the box and—very gently—remove the clear plastic bag.
It’s the weight of a truck, even though it’s barely the weight of an infant.
I carefully spread the ashes in the hole, stuff the empty bag back into the box, and push the dirt over top, covering the hole again.
I choke on the tears and brush off my hands, collapsing to the ground and sitting with my back up to the tree.
It’s that easy, isn’t it? It’s so easy to bury them—to throw things away—but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t still felt. That what they did disappears, too, because it doesn’t.
I wish they’d had gotten to know me.
I wish they didn’t have to die for me to be given the opportunity to know myself.
Sometimes the clouds aren’t enough, I guess. We need the whole damn storm.
I stay out there for a long time, looking up at the thick bough above from where my father tied the rope for the swing. The wear in the bark shows years of all the nights they played. It’s still surreal to me that I never once came out here to sit on the swing.
But then, there was no one to push me.
I blow out the candle and take everything back inside, putting it away and closing the house up. I turn off the lights, making sure the back door is locked but not bolting the front, because Mirai is coming back.
Climbing the stairs, I yawn, excruciatingly tired. It’s after seven here, so it’s only after eight in Chapel Peak. What’s he doing right now? He wouldn’t be going to bed yet. Not unless I was, and then he goes where I go.
My heart aches. I don’t think I expected him to call, but I wasn’t sure I expected that he’d just accept us being apart, either. But here we are, a day later, and nothing.
I stop at the top of the stairs, about to head to bed, but I step right instead and walk to my parents’ door, opening it up this time.
The smell of vanilla and bergamot assault me, and I almost hold my breath on reflex. I like the scents, just not together. It will always remind me of her.
Entering the room, I look around and notice everything is as pristine as if they were still alive. The bed is made, no sign that their bodies laid there for hours all those months ago, and the glass top of my mother’s make-up table glimmers in the moonlight streaming through the sheer white curtains. The crystals dangling from her lamp gleam, and I flip on a light, doing a three-sixty around the large bedroom.
As much as I try to search for a connection to them, though, it doesn’t come. There are no memories here. No nights of crawling into their bed. No playing with my mother’s make-up or helping my dad with his tie.
I walk into the closet and turn on the light, gazing at the long line of beautiful dresses I desperately wanted to try on over the years and never could.
“Hey,” I hear Mirai say behind me.
She’s back.
I turn my head slowly, looking at the closet of clothes and the displays of jewelry and watches. I think of all the art in the house and the cars in the garage that have nothing to do with me anymore. A home full of things that were never a part of me, and I no longer desire them to be.
“Can you call Christie’s in the morning?” I ask Mirai, pulling the closet door closed and twisting around to look at her. “Let’s hold an auction. We’ll donate the proceeds to their favorite charities.”
“Are you—”
“Yes,” I cut her off, walking out the door. “I’m sure.”
“Thank you.” I smile, taking the breakfast burrito and my receipt.
Walking out of the small shop, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, protecting my AirPods from the light rain as “The Hand That Feeds” plays in my ears. I cross the empty walkway, bypassing the pier, and head out to the beach, sand spilling inside my Vans as my heels dig in.
The dark clouds hang low as the waves roll in, the morning sun hiding and the beach blissfully empty except for a couple joggers. Two surfers paddle out, their black wetsuits glistening. I plop down and shimmy out of my backpack, taking out my water bottle and sitting cross-legged as I unwrap the foil around my burrito.