Part the Thirty-Third

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The sun would not be denied, shining without shame in direct contrast to nature's more recognizable signs of late autumn in New England. The deciduous trees had long since shed all of their foliage, looking naked and vulnerable with heaps of dead leaves mounded at their feet, and the grass had become tough and brittle to match its rusty color. Here and there a blackened flower still hung on its weakening stem, a grim warning to those foolishly hopeful sprouts who might otherwise be deceived by the misleading warm spells that occurred periodically between frosts. If not for the wind, the bright sun would have surprised everyone with a delightful day. But the wind was unapologetic about its rudely cold presence, biting at cheeks and nose tips and causing those standing around the gravesite to turn up the collars on their coats.

Geneva was oblivious to the crowd surrounding her, all huddled close not so much to commiserate with other grieving hearts as to shield themselves from the wind. One of her mother's biggest paintings was displayed on the opposite side of the grave, defying the somber mood with vibrant hues in unrestrained patterns. This had been her idea and although some extended family members had tried to dissuade her unconventional suggestion, they had finally relented out of pity for the grieving girl. Geneva ignored the coffin that had been positioned right in front of her—pristine and proper and apathetic—and instead focused on the rebellious spectacle preserved on canvas standing behind it. She imagined her mother's mischievous soul flitting about the scene, avoiding the wooden box built to hold her lifeless body, making rude faces at the hypocrites who feigned heartbreak about a woman they too often targeted with their gossip, and dancing with joy that her daughter would remember her with such a fitting expression of what her life had been about.

She listened intently as the pastor spoke passionately and purposely about her mother. She had never considered herself a believer in faith and was put off by organized religion, but she had also never denied the existence of God. The words had more meaning to her now; the symbolism and supernatural elements were far easier to accept. She now knew that souls existed, that there was some sort of afterlife, that unspeakable evil existed outside the boundaries of the known world. She would never be able to explain her recent experiences to any other person, but that didn't bother her. Her mindset was different now. She had no need for justification or explanation; she had no desire to be counseled or consoled.

Likewise, she was no longer haunted by her mother's death. She certainly mourned losing her; it created a constant void in her daily living that nothing else could ever fill, but her understanding of life and death was deeper now. She had seen the look on her mother's face when the Starheart had finally been unlocked. There wasn't fear or anguish in that face. There was only joy.

The intermittent winds took an extended break as the casket was lowered into the ground. Somebody put a heavy hand on her shoulder. It lingered far longer than her comfort level. Even as she wiped the stubborn tears from her eyes, Geneva couldn't help but smile while she dropped the final bouquet onto the polished wood. It contained a flower in every color available, an arrangement that had provoked more than a few strange looks, but she knew that her mother would have loved it.

She was no longer angry at her mother for dying, or for breaking her promise, and that was incredibly liberating. In fact, she realized that her mother's promise lived on. She was now fully aware that she could see her mother again, and that the spiritual reunion might very well prove eternal.

Until forever.

So there was no rush to try to join her mother when her own young life continued to have great value. Geneva still didn't fear death, but now she didn't long for it. Steekbunk Lowbone had demonstrated the importance of living life, no matter what you think tomorrow will bring. Life's journey wasn't always easy, and there certainly weren't any shortcuts.

The worn path marks the steps of those who finished their journey.

A final flurry of activity swarmed about her—lingering hugs, sticky kisses on the cheek, countless words that she didn't absorb and would never retain. Then she eagerly headed back to her ride, knowing that Cleveland the cat would be howling for supper and willing to share a nap.

As she opened the car door, an elderly woman approached her. She was fairly certain it was a great-aunt she had never known until today. The gravity-defying, silver mound hovering atop the woman's wrinkled face was unforgettable.

"I'm very worried about you, dear," the woman said with a trembling voice. "This must be so difficult for a young girl."

"Thank you," Geneva responded calmly. "I'll be okay. Really."

"There's nothing I can do?" the woman persisted, snagging a loose silver strand from above her eye and tucking it back into her remarkable sculpture of hair. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm going to be okay," Geneva insisted with a smile. "I have a star in my heart."

THE END

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