Fake It | ✔️

Twenty-Three | 💋

"Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs."

- Proverbs 10:12 ESV

I thrusted the gear shift into park. The gravel dust floated in the spring air, mud streaks painted my passenger side doors. Papa's truck sat in between the two oak trees, the longer branches stretched out, the lighter brown new twigs and green buds perked. The wooden sign sat on the left of me, fresh black paint made the letters legible: Williamstown Cemetery. My hands clutched the soft-leather steering wheel. Too occupied with my thoughts to notice seven missed calls with my phone being squished in my back-jean pocket.

What is she planning? Why show up here? A year later after Mama's – ugh – why after nineteen years of absolute silence?!

My fingers ran through my caramel hair, pulling at the roots and dead ends.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror, a small jar-like air freshener dangled back and forth on the mirror from the abrupt stop. Off to the right side of Papa's truck, a used car rested in the side gravel. Black, blue, and red painted horizontal marks etched into the white vehicle's sidings. Dents bulged in and out around the edges where the doors opened.

I shook my head.

What do I say?

Dismissing the worn-out car, I flipped my visor down. I opened the small mirror, yellow lighting streamed on my face. My fingers grazed over my flushed cheeks, a small pimple tucked in my nostril crease, swollen from the additional touches, and wrinkles on my forehead.

Do I look like her? –

I groaned. I slammed the visor back into its place against the tan interior car frame. A short click matched my mood. From my memories . . . Mo – Cassidy had forest green eyes with a dash of gold speckles. She'd brush my hair, the end first then roots to bottom, similar to Cassidy's own hair, wavy curls. With dead ends -

Hell no. I look like Mama. Why is she here? Finally sending her condolences?

Papa called me earlier.

After arriving home from an eight-hour shift, I cuddled with Amadeus, he'd sit there in the palm of my hands. I knew he needed sunshine soon to stay warm. A timer was set for five minutes because I kept closing my eyes. Dottie observed from the carpet. Her piercing emerald eyes peaked above the couch seat's height. Ears faced forward. Whiskers poked at the couch's fabric.

My phone went off.

His soft whimpers pressed against my ear.

"Papa – what's happening?" I sat up straight, "Are you okay? Tell me or I'm sending a paramedic! Where's Mary? Let me talk to her-"

"Cassidy."

My hands shook. There was a moment of silence.

"She's here."