Looking Back

by Brenda Penepent

Today is the three year anniversary of Carrie’s death. She was 20-years-old when she died. I can scarcely believe that this time has passed, yet, the calendars have changed and the seasons have passed.

I found myself at her grave side today, reflecting on the past three years. I looked out over the hills and watched the dark blue clouds drifting as I thought about the people I have met, and the things that have happened these three years. There have been so many tears to shed, so many memories to recapture and hold. There have been smiles of remembered laughter and a deep sense of emptiness inside that never seems to really go away.

I reached down and absentmindedly picked a blade of grass that had started to grow over onto her plot. It felt cool on my fingers, though it was hot there in the sun. I turned to look at the mountain behind the cemetery. It has stood for so long, there is no outward sign of the troubles it must have seen all these years.

I look out into the day and think again of the day we laid her there. There is no outward sign of the life she led. Nothing to tell you that she loved her daughter, hated liver, and laughed like an angel.

A stone marks her place of rest, stoically. It demands a finality to her death. I resist the need to make sense of it all. Leaning down once more I place a candle on the edge of her stone. The night she died, I clearly heard her voice ask me to light a candle for her. It is my way of paying tribute to that request. The flowers I brought are carefully pushed into the ground. I look at the result, thinking of times when I couldn’t have imagined doing what I just did.

I step over to my Mother’s grave and tell her hello and that I miss her. It will be one year soon. Only 23 more days. I involuntarily sink into deep remembrances of Mom too. I say a small prayer for God to take good care of them until I see them again. I place the flowers that I brought for Mom too.

Just before I leave, I move silently to the grave of Dena, the step-mother who was driving the truck the day my daughter died. I have forgiven her, over and over, in my head. I place one last bouquet on Dena’s grave. For the friend I once knew. I pray for her too.

I turn to leave, slowly. My limbs feel heavy as lead. I can barely move along. Each step I take is a testament to the strength inside me. I know I must keep walking. Just keep walking. Grass hoppers bouncing around my feet. It makes me smile a little just because they are escorting me to the car. Gently, a breeze lifts the hair on my neck as I reach the cool shade where I parked. I feel torn between the need to ask why and the need to hurl myself back into life. I wonder if the next year will be that way, and the next. I say a silent prayer to God to hold off for a while on any more deaths. I beg him to let me get my balance once again.

My husband starts the car, the air conditioner is running. We head to my Father’s to play with Carrie’s daughter. She has been gone for two weeks to visit her Daddy. As I hold her little body in my arms I thank God I have her to hold. We need each other, you see. We both have a Mommy in heaven. I smile into her hair and kiss her cheek, knowing that God is pretty smart after all.