We all stare for a few beats at the headstone that reads PRINCE DECHU. Three generations of birds paying homage to the man who irrevocably changed each of our lives for the better. Who gave us purpose and made us part of the most valuable thing that continues to survive his death—his legacy.
Allowing the ache to have its way with me, I watch as Clint steps forward. He pulls his latest annual sobriety chip from his pocket before bending down to Dom’s grave, his words drifting back to Zach and me.
“I wanted you to have this one.” He pushes the chip into the ground in front of the gravestone. “You saved my life, brother. In more ways than one. Thank you.”
He slowly stands and lingers briefly before turning to Zach and me, palming my shoulder as Zach steps forward. Plastic wrapped around his fresh ink, he kneels, no longer resembling the gangly boy we collectively took in and sheltered, and brushes some of the debris from the weathering headstone.
“I,” his voice wavers slightly, and I understand every shake inside it. It’s been a long, hard road for both of us. Zach became a permanent part of my life at the worst imaginable time. At the brink of war, and while Delphine was losing her battle with cancer. His father hadn’t bothered looking for him, and I had to pin the fucker down and get persuasive for him to sign for the adoption. Even as my own hand trembled a little while finalizing the papers, I knew it was the best decision I would ever make. He became my son legally at fifteen—now a man, a fourth-generation marine, and a raven. I’ve never been more in awe of how things work out.
“You were right,” Zach tells Dom. “I’m nothing like him,” he relays hoarsely. “Dad says I’m a lot like you, and all I can say to that . . . is I fucking hope so.” He runs a hand along the top of the stone. “You gave me a family, and for that, I can’t thank you enough, Dom. We’ll be back.”
Zach stands and looks over at me with a reverent glaze in his eyes. I return his stare, hoping he sees the pride shining in mine as the burn keeps me mute.
Zach reads my expression and gestures toward Clint. “Let’s give him a minute.”
Zach and Clint both nod and take off through the gate and down the hill. Taking my time, I allow the memories to flood me, emotions churning as I stare at the etched date of the days I lost them. It feels just like yesterday, then again, a lifetime ago.
His words kick back to me as I stare down at his weathering stone.
“When we wait for someone to do something, no one ever fucking shows up.”
“I always believed you,” I whisper as every hair on my body stands on end. “You were the someone who did something—still are,” I choke around the burn in my throat. “I hope you’re seeing this, brother.”
Dom
“Don’t you dare leave me here. I want that date with you,” Cecelia demands tearfully, roping me back to her as the past, present, and future collide and intermingle. Within the next heartbeat, I’m blinded by another flash of light and pulled back through.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Anger and resentment between two fighting brothers who refuse to turn their backs on the other.
A ceaseless war.
Love lost and found.
“I’m right behind you, Dom.”
A battered heart pushing a ring on a new love’s finger.
More grief as a presence brushes against me.
“I see you found our back door, nephew.”
A hospital door.
“Wake the fuck up, T.”
A faithless man healed by a fatherless son.
An intake of a baby’s first breath. “I told you I’d give you my firstborn, but I gave him your name instead.”
Another crack of a baby’s first cry . . . echoed by another, and another.
Flags waving as millions gather with renewed hope.
“We’re waking ghosts up, Rye.”
A lost love retrieved on a cobblestone street.
“I wish you would have taken me with you, but I guess, in a way, you took us all with you.”
A burst of music, a paintbrush dipped in red, a distant bark.
Healing.
“Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé. Je suis vraiment désolé.”
“Fireflies.”
The coronation of a queen.
Unification.
More presences brushing against me, our governing view the same.
The click of pool balls.
Endless laughter.
Boundless love.
A solid beam of light piercing into a cloud-filled sky.
A long-awaited reckoning followed by an awakening.
Vengeance.
Revelation.
“You were the someone who did something—still are. I hope you’re seeing this, brother.”
Endless dawns and sunrises.
Foamy waves rolling toward cliff rock as clouds gather above a turbulent sea.
“We did it, brother.”
Life given and life taken away, and every moment in between.
I live it all, with them, through them, as them.
Whoosh.
“If you leave, we will be brothers wherever you go, right, Maman?”
Whoosh.
Tobias presses his forehead to mine as I relay through stunted breaths that there is no separation—one last secret to take with me. “Frères pour toujours.”
Whoosh.
Cecelia’s storm engulfs me fully, sweeping me into the blissful state only she could ever take me as my brother’s whisper reaches me, “Mother greet you, Father keep you. I love you, brother.”
Whoosh.
“It’s time to sleep, Petit Prince.”
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
Who-osh.
Whoo
One Last Rainy Day Spotify Playlist
Pretty Place Chapel
DEAR READER,
Hey you . . . was that ending a little out there? For me, it felt fitting, but let me preface my reason for it with a little explanation of where it stemmed from.
You know that woman that Dom mentions in the eighties, who flatlined three times and was brought back with a vivid recollection of the afterlife?
That was my mother.
Every detail of her description of the afterlife came directly from her memory of the brief time she swore and faithfully believed she visited. Due to the substantial injuries she sustained in that horrific car accident, she was considered medically dead for a long period. However, the doctors refused to give up on her because she had three young daughters—two of whom were in the accident with her.
I was one of them.
I gained consciousness in the middle of that highway on that sunny day and saw the cloudy sky hovering above before a medic popped into view. My first question was, “Is this heaven?”
All I remember was his smile, but I can’t at all recall his reply.
Ironically, during that time, it was my mother who was taking that brief journey. After coming back, she learned to walk, talk, read, and write again. Once she could, the first thing she expressed was that she was not at all happy about being brought back.
My mother lived another thirty or so years before cancer took her back. Every minute I spent with her leading up to her passing, she never seemed afraid. Maybe she was trying to protect me, but honestly, she wasn’t that selfless, which convinced me she was looking forward to her return trip.
Since that accident, she always remained firm in her testament that an afterlife exists, and it’s better than we could ever imagine. For someone like me, who fears the inevitable, it brings me some comfort. Not to mention her description seems pretty sublime—like a place I wouldn’t mind going.