Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Eleven - Liam

Saturday, I sleep in. And when I wake up at 9 o' clock, the house is empty. Dad must be studying at his office at the church. Bitterly, I remember all those weekends before mom died when we would all wake up early and pile into their bed to eat cereal and watch cartoons together. Even Ezra, who is 8 years older than me. And even as I got older, we would still pile into bed together to watch TV on Saturday mornings. But eventually as more time passed, cartoons turned into reruns of MacGyver and The A-Team.

Now, at sixteen – six years since mom died – I can't remember the last time I spent a Saturday morning with my family. I guess, ever so slowly, with Dad spending all his time at the church and Ez God-knows-where at this point, Saturday mornings became my alone time. My time to work on my music.

But this morning, as I sit down at my desk, staring out the window at the morning light, and pull my guitar into my lap... I can't seem to find the will. The papers are spread out in front of me, a mix of every song I've ever written. Songs from years ago when I still believed in a good God. And songs that are more recent when that faith fell away. But in the middle of the pages, scribbled and scattered more times than I can count, that single line repeats, mocking me and taunting me, reminding me of my failure to answer Mom's last question.

It always happens like this. Suddenly and quietly, the grief comes. Like a slow, sad song it fills the room and presses against me, pushing, testing me to see how much I can take before I break.

And I try to ignore it. I try to pretend the fog isn't there, but the truth is that it never left. All these years later, and it's like I've been trying to see the world through the gray. I can make out shapes and colors, but it's the details that I miss. The faces of friends and family have become strangers. I remember names, but I can't remember the way their voices sound when they say something important, the way their words wrap around their meaning. As time passes, the memories fade until all I see are ghosts.

Eyes clenched shut, I realize this isn't right. I can't do this here. So I throw on my hoodie, grab my guitar and strap it over my shoulders, and leave.

A symphony of dark clouds hangs from the sky above Summit, slipping down like rivers of gray from the mountain peaks that tower in the distance. As I slide from the seat of my Harley and cross the parking lot toward Summit's only cemetery, my eyes are drawn to the mountains and I can't help but imagine that they're standing guard over the dead, observing with invisible eyes their passage to whatever comes next.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but not in the kind of way that makes me feel like I'm being watched. But in the kind of way that reminds me that there's something more to life than what I already know. In a strange way, it's comforting to realize that I don't know everything. No one does. There's an after. There's a next. And for some of us, it's ridiculously beautiful. I imagine Mom is there now, hearing for the first time songs that couldn't possibly be heard with human ears, seeing for the first time colors off-limits to human eyes.

And that thought gives me peace.

I step foot onto the cemetery lawn, my sneakers pressing into the damp earth. The grass is perfectly manicured and somehow the groundskeeper has managed to ward off any sign of weeds. Passing row after row of headstone, I study the names. Some of them are weathered beyond recognition and some of the dates go as far back as the late 1800s. Off to the northern section of the cemetery is a smaller lawn separated by a paved pathway and surrounded by bright white fencing. There, Summit's military men and women are buried. Each of their headstones are decorated with the American flag and some are decorated with flags from other countries, displaying with some measure of pride the indiscriminate diversity of their sacrifice. My heart swells with admiration for their service and for a brief second I consider a future where I could stand tall, strong, and proud like they did.
But not everyone is meant for strength. Some of us are meant for weakness. Where is the pride in that?
Turning my eyes from the north side of the cemetery, I shove my fists into the pocket of my hoodie and follow the slope of the cemetery until I come to her grave.
My eyes are fixed to her name, written in stone as if to remind the world that she was here and that she will be here until its end.