"It's been awhile..."
He mumbled, fingers weaving mindlessly through blades of grass. His eyes traced the engraved letters—grey, austere, and fittingly lifeless.
He was far too familiar with graveyards, and had been even before he'd had someone to visit. They used to take walks there sometimes, through one of the old cemeteries that had entranced Stevie with its crumbling stone and wrought-iron gate. There was something about spirits walking earth in the moments between day and night, she'd explained to him once. Imagine, she'd said with wide eyes, all the forgotten stories, the people with no one left to remember them. She had looked down thoughtfully, and in that moment, with the last shades of sunlight emanating from the edges of her hair, she'd looked like a spirit herself. A ghost, but lighter somehow.
"You know," he finally decided, "you kinda look like an angel."
Then she'd turned to him with the sweetest smile, and if he closed his eyes, he could still see the glimmer in her own as she'd walked towards him that night at dusk, before pressing their lips together.
Yet, even now, his breath almost caught in his throat when he laid eyes on his father's headstone. Something about the power of its finality, a last remembrance that seemed to reduce his father's memory to his first and last days on earth. The piece of granite made his death permanent in a way he hadn't been prepared for, even months after the fact.
After the funeral, he'd wanted to leave town as soon as possible, already suffocated by the grief of family and friends surrounding him. In the following months, he'd thrown himself into material for their second Buckingham Nicks album, falling asleep with his fingers on the frets only to pick up in the same place the next morning. The thought that his father had died before he could succeed, before he could be proud of him, made Lindsey push himself harder. It was only the better part of a year afterwards, when Ruth had begged Stevie over the phone for them to come home for thanksgiving, that he had gathered the will to make it back to Atherton. It'd been the worst holiday he'd ever had, between the ever-present sheen in his mother's eyes and the constant glances at the empty space at the head of the table, no one willing to unseat the ghost quite yet.
Once again, he'd wanted to get the hell out of there, even beginning to pack their things while Stevie was still in bed the next morning. As he put the car in gear, she'd presented him with a small note in his mother's handwriting, asking him if he would mind first stopping at that address as she needed some unnamed feminine items. With a simple nod, he'd driven them to the cluster of shops not far from his childhood home and was left to wait in the car. Soon lost in thought, he'd almost jumped at her soft knock against his window. Opening the door in confusion, he was further shocked as Stevie scooted in next to him, her body gently pushing Lindsey into the passenger side of the bench. Only then did he notice the bouquet of blue hydrangeas laid across her lap. As he met her eyes, she explained gently that she thought he might like to go see him, that Ruth had given her the directions before they left.
"Only if you want to, baby." She'd repeated as he remained silent.
He'd been thinking about it certainly. Since they'd been home and even before. But after last night, he wasn't sure he could face it, whether it might not be better to wonder in this case. Still, he finally managed a small nod in agreement, taking the small bunch of flowers from her lap. Distracted by Stevie's disastrous driving and overall lacking sense of direction during their drive over, he'd felt almost blindsided as they finally arrived. He had barely taken a few steps out of the car before he froze in his tracks, eyes finding the familiar name.
Morris Hamilton Buckingham
Eventually he'd made his way forward, allowing Stevie to take the bouquet from his loose fingers and gently lay the flowers down as he brushed the tips of his fingers reverently across the top of the gravestone.
