• Yet again she licked her lips nervously. Her fingers trembled and she clenched her hand into a fist to stop the tremors. She swallowed for the hundredth time in a vain attempt to moisten her dry as cracking-parchment throat.

    At last she lifted the pen and carefully shoved the cap onto the other end. She held it too tight and hesitated a moment, then lowered the pen to the blank sheet of paper. Then she hesitated once more and lifted the pen. Then lowered and lifted and lowered. This time, she told herself, she would begin. She would start with just two words- not hard ones, but ones learned by rote. Words everyone knew- easy words. She would. She gathered up her resolve in much the same way that one might gather papers scattered on the wind and she wrote the words and she was amazed at how easy it was. Those words had been easy, flowing from the pen willingly to shine in wet black ink curved and angled in her odd brand of cursive on the emptiness of the page. She nibbled on her lip and let herself be drawn in by the fluid look of ink that hadn’t quite dried, putting off the next words- hard words- but then the ink was dry and there was nothing for it. Hard words certainly, but she had to write them; not by any grand proclamation was it required but even as she could not find the words to write, the part of her that was the boss, that wouldn’t let her back down from a challenge, the part the never let her leave a piece of litter sitting on the side walk or leave a mess for someone else even if she wanted to- the part of her that was her strength- that part stubbornly crossed it’s arms jutted its chin and glued her to the chair.

    So she started, tracing the two words, the easy ones to get started
    Dear Poppy, she chewed the pen and she looked inside herself- there was so much to tell, but nothing to say so she just wrote awkward things, just the things she would tell anyone. School has been hard, but I’ve got all A’s so everything’s ok. I’ve been really inspired and I wrote some nice poetry the other day. It still needs editing though. Everyone has been really depressed, so I have to be strong for everyone. Then she sniffled, and the words came now, pouring in from the muse that guided her hand whenever she wrote poetry or a story, whenever she wrote from the heart. But I really miss you too. I wish you were still here to hug me. I wish I could read you my poetry and make you proud again. I want the feeling your big warm hands around mine and your laughter back. I want you to hold me again, in your big strong arms and tell me you love me like only you can. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you , I miss you! I promise I won’t forget; won’t forget reading together, and sitting in the park together and always knowing that we were different than the others rushing around and washing TV and trying to fit in. I’ll remember that you always believed in me, even when I didn’t; I’ll remember that to you I was always beautiful, not matter what I wore or how crazy my hair looked. I’ll never forget.

    She couldn’t see the page anymore, couldn’t see anything through the blurring and the dark, but it didn’t matter. The pen and paper were her domain and she didn’t need to see, didn’t need to think. The words came in a rush, flowing down the paper much as the tears flowed down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook, but her hand was steady and she wrote.
    I’ll always remember you, and I’ll always love you. Wherever you are, I hope you can watch over me. I’ll do it, just like you said. I’ll be a writer, then you can be proud just one more time. I love you.
    Love,
    She signed her name and set down the pen, but the tears kept falling, shaking her shoulders and blurring her sight. Never again. She thought. Never again. She remembered sparkling blue eyes, and laugh lines; silky white hair and always winning scrabble. She remembered the handkerchief, drying the tears of a younger her; the same one she kept in the drawer under everything else, where it would be safe and she remembered hugs bigger and softer than anything else. Gone. But I’m still here. I’ll make him proud. She promised herself, as the tears slowed. They stopped and she looked down at the page, full of her black writing and covered in tearstains and the stubborn part of her nodded its approval. She didn’t wipe her tears away, but just sat and felt them dry on her face because wiping them away felt like being ashamed, and she wasn’t. She missed him, and that was nothing to be ashamed of. She began to fold the paper carefully, and didn’t make any mistakes.

    She walked down to the beach, the same one where the service had been; the same beach where his urn now rested, deep, deep below the white capped waves and gray skies. She walked down and the salty wind blew back her hair and she smiled softly. He had moved to the beachside because he loved the ocean. It was a good resting spot. The icy surf brushed her toes, numbing her feet, but she didn’t turn away. She set the little paper boat on the crest of the wave and watched as it was carried out to sea; to him. She stood there , just thinking and watching the waves and the clouds and the wind. After a while she couldn’t see the boat anymore, but neither did she look for it. She turned her face into the cold briny wind and she stood. For a long time, she stayed there unmoving, listening to the crashing of the waves and whispering of the wind through the tall grass and if she squinted just so, the ocean looked like his eyes and sometimes if she listened hard enough she could hear his laugh in the wind, made more of memory and longing than anything solid. She smiled the sad smile he never let her keep, and she knew it was enough. He laughed in the wind and waves and she knew he heard her, then there was just her and the cold water and the wind whispering nonsense in her ears, but she stayed and she remembered, just as she had promised until the beach had washed away all the remembering and all that was left was grief. Muted, dull grief. Always grief.