Further Up & Further In

Flowers For Her Grave: Chapter 9

Susan visited her parents' shared tombstone on their 31st wedding anniversary, a dozen roses in hand. There was a verse inscribed on the stone, which had been suggested to her by the pastor of her parents' church, and at the time she hadn't had it in her to care, but now she regarded it with curiosity. She'd seen it countless times over the past five years, but it struck her a little differently this time around. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28.

She'd appreciated it before, for her own reasons. It bid her to come and rest, and she liked it in association with her parents. What were parents for, after all, if not to comfort you, protect you, encourage you, and nurture you? The grave may have caused her distress, but she couldn't help but feel like her parents were still there with her as she spoke to them. It was a little glimmer of hope that she just couldn't let go of.

She studied the verse again, now. That's what it was: a verse. It wasn't a call from her parents. It wasn't about her parents at all. In fact, it wouldn't even be written there if she hadn't consented to put it there in the first place. And yet, she was more glad than ever that she had let it be written.

Susan placed the roses on the earth, and knelt in front of them. Her father had always been sure to buy flowers for his wife on their anniversary. In fact, it was Mrs. Pevensie who tended to forget the date. Not that she was particularly forgetful - none of the Pevensies really were - but she remembered every one of her children's birthdays, and perhaps she lost track of those days meant to celebrate herself in the process. She'd always been a good mother, in that way. Susan had told her to take a break more than once in her later years, but of course her mother never listened. ...and I will give you rest.

Susan sat and talked for a while. She talked a little about a strange call she had received; from Aunt Alberta of all people, and how they were planning to meet. She mentioned that she had finally met Jill Pole's parents, and she wished she had reached out earlier. And then she talked about the boy she was seeing, (not for the first time) and how much they would have liked him. She confessed that she really thought she loved him, and that she hoped to marry him one day. Something was different about him, she assured them. Her father would have loved the way he talked with such purpose. Her mother would have loved the way he helped her put on her coat, and pulled out her chair. At the very least, she knew they'd have loved the smile he put on her face.

That meeting with her parents left Susan feeling satisfied in a way she hadn't in a long time. She'd always been a romantic, of course, but it wasn't just about the young man she loved. She felt closer to her parents in that moment; like she was closer to understanding them. Her heart was a little more open to them. Her shoulders carried a little less weight.

Her birthday came next, and it wasn't so lonely as her first couple had been. She went out with friends, dressed to the nines, and she let herself smile brightly. They drank together, toasting Susan, toasting 27. Her friends got giggly and joked about engagement rings, and Susan brushed them off with laughter. When she left, though, they hugged her tightly. They were more serious. They knew she still hurt, and she loved them so much in that moment that she thought her heart might burst. In their own way, they had become her family, too. 

On her way out, she caught sight of herself in a mirror, and for a moment she could have sworn there was something different about it. Oh, it was so clearly her own reflection, and yet, in the corner of her eye, it was someone else entirely. Someone noble. Beautiful. Happy.

Now was the fifth Christmas since the accident, and Susan did something she had once sworn she'd never do again: she called her boyfriend and asked if he'd pick her up and take her with him to the church service. She was unspeakably nervous about it, though she didn't know why. Perhaps they would all stare at her; the people there. Judge her for leaving. Condemn her for her lack of faith. And in her mind she knew she hadn't done anything dreadfully wrong, but in her heart she felt a deeper truth. You have forsaken your first love. Would they really judge her for being gone for so long? She felt they would.