Make You Mine

“You can get struck through the receiver!”

“And I thought you were smart. It’s an old wives’ tale.”

“See you in the morning.” I disconnect and go to the side door, sliding the glass open and stepping out onto the patio.

I’m facing the same field I observed from my father’s study. Down the hill a little ways is the family cemetery. It’s just a minute or two walk from here. The wind picks up, and I smell rain. I feel the change in the air. It’s a little crisper, a little cooler. We’re on the cusp of fall.

I don’t like being cold. I much prefer baking in the hot sun, but it was Danny’s favorite time of year. My throat tightens at the memory, and I take another, longer sip before setting the glass on the small picnic table.

My stomach is burning from the wine, and my head feels a little buzzy. I walk through the soft grass in my bare feet. I changed into jeans and a pale pink sweater that falls off one shoulder when I got home.

Another gust of wind carries the metallic taste of rain to my nose and tongue. Tightness is in my chest that moves up to my neck and shoulders. A dry ache is in my throat. It’s a pain I can never quite swallow away. I can never quite drink it away…

Or jog it away.

Or meditate it away.

Or deep-breathe it away.

Or any of the other therapeutic techniques I tell my patients.

As I walk, mist fills the air. It isn’t rain, but it dampens my cheeks. It’s cold on my face and in my hair as I get closer to the marble monuments standing in the flickering moonlight like sentinels, guarding the dead.

My pace slows the closer I get. In the back of the three-row cemetery is a small tree, a crepe myrtle. Under it is a white concrete bench.

“Oh!” My heart jumps and skitters like a rabbit.

Before the moon disappeared again behind the fast-moving cirrus clouds, I was sure I saw someone sitting there. Fear is somehow stronger than misery, and I freeze in place, waiting a few paces from my brother’s grave for the light to return.

“Who’s there?” My voice is a whisper, not quite loud enough to be heard.

I don’t believe in ghosts, which leaves only one other option. Someone is lost, or a homeless person or a person with bad intentions is waiting out here. I should turn and run… but for whatever reason, I hesitate.

The dark form rises from the bench, and my insides lurch.

This time my voice isn’t a whisper. “Who are you?”

No response, bu

t the figure slowly walks in my direction. My lungs are like bellows pumping hard, forcing me to breathe. My head is light as I watch him move, as his shape draws closer.

I fight against what my memory is telling me.

It’s been four years, but I still remember the way he moves, the way he walks.

I still remember the way he ducks his head when he’s sad or unsure.

Danny’s grave is steps in front of me, but I can’t go any closer. The wind pushes my hair off my shoulders, and the clouds uncover the moon.

The moment I see his gray eyes, dark in this light, hot tears spill onto my cheeks.

“Gray.” The word slips out on a broken whisper, loud enough so he can hear. “What are you doing here?”

His shoulders slump, and both hands are in his pockets. He blinks away from me and down to the headstone that reads, In the hollow of God’s hand…

“I needed to see it.”

The sound of his voice, the deep resonance, almost brings me to my knees. Another rush of hot tears spills down my cheeks.