Needing a paper and pen to sketch my ideas, I followed the corridor to the room my father had built for my mother. A writing room. A small square looking over the willow grotto where her desk could store her manuscripts while her gaze followed her husband on his tractor.
The feel of this room was soft and welcoming, and I sighed as I opened one of her desk drawers, searching for a pen.
I froze.
My hands shook as I pulled out two green boxes that’d once had the power to cut me apart.
The gifts from my father.
Mom had kept them, waiting for a time when she could give the last two presents. A time that never came, just like the boxes she hadn’t opened. The ones I’d buried by her ashes.
My mind shot back to the greenhouse the day before she died when she’d given me the ribbon lace for the girl I’d fallen in love with. I’d shoved that gift into a cupboard, fighting my own lies that Hope meant nothing.
I should’ve given it to her. After all, the gift was to her from my father.
Who were these gifts to? Hope or me?
Two remaining boxes.
One for when I got married.
One for when I had a child.
Our wedding had already happened.
The birth of our child was a few months away.
A gust of air blew through the room. I didn’t know where it originated from as the windows were closed. It wasn’t chilly like the autumn breeze outside but warm and imploring.
I didn’t want to.
I didn’t know if I could handle such things, but I owed the two people who had died to open them.
Ripping into the paper, I cracked open the first box.
Inside rested a small photo frame. Silver and simple, empty and needing one of the many photos Cassie took of Hope and me at our wedding.
A piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
Gritting my teeth, I picked it up and read.
Dear Wild One,
Congratulations on getting hitched.
If you’re anything like me, it would’ve been the best day of your life. Not because family and friends watched you pledge yourself to your chosen one, but because you’ve laughed death in the face. You’ve made a solemn vow that you will never be alone. Ever. You will always find each other now you are wed.
I’m so happy for you to find your other half to share your life with.
I love both of you,
Dad
Clearing my throat from a wash of emotion, I rushed to open the last box before I broke and had to go back to Hope. Before I had to see my wife, hug her close, and remind myself that all this pain was worth it.
To look at her rounding belly and know she created a miracle. To accept that sometimes miracles came to pass and sometimes tragedy came in its place. But through it all, we survived.
The paper ripped loudly on the final box, the lid tight over its contents.
Pulling it open, I tipped a silver bangle into my palm.
A bracelet for a baby.
Inside an inscription glinted: Live Wild. Love Freely. Be Blessed.
I clutched the precious metal in my fist as I read the last message I would ever have from my father.
But it wasn’t addressed to me.
It was addressed to my daughter.
The little person Hope and I were yet to meet.
Dear Baby Wild.
You are so loved.
You were born to parents who will lay down their lives for you.
You were created by love that no amount of pain can shatter.
You have the world at your feet, and I wish you every blessing and happiness.
Love,
Your grandfather.
The strength in my legs buckled.
I’d pushed myself too far, and I tumbled into my mother’s writing chair. Wedging my elbows on the desk, I breathed deep, using tricks the therapist had given me to stay in the present and not focus on all the things I could lose. All the scenarios that could go wrong. All the worries that drove me mad.
Slowly, my heart stopped racing, and I looked up again.
In the distance, amongst wildflowers slowly fading with autumn and trees turning orange, stood Hope. She had one hand on Forrest’s whither while she scratched the nose of a white mare called Snowy. A rescue horse turned heart horse that I trusted to protect my wife impeccably.
I stood to go to her.
To celebrate the news of our daughter and brainstorm names well into the night, only my boots nudged something beneath the desk, dragging my eyes to the darkness.
A box.
Another goddamn box.
This one bigger and heavier than all the rest as I bent to claim it from the floor.
Placing the silver bangle to the side, I hoisted the bulk onto the desk. My hands shook as I smoothed the lid.
Was it my place to open? Was it an invasion of my mother’s privacy?
I waited for a while. Paused for a breeze or a sign that I was permitted to see such things, but the air stayed still, watchful.