Underneath the Sycamore Tree

“Mama is selfish, Logan.”

Once the words are uttered, my body reacts. It’s like an anvil is about to crush me before someone saves me in the last second. It’s a weight I don’t need burying me under everything else that’s already trying to put me in a grave next to Lo.

I stare at the ground.

At the grass.

At the dirt.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

My family has never been religious, never even gone to church. Mama said when she was little she’d been dragged every Sunday and hated it. Dad never went a day in his life. They told us we could decide when we were older if it’s something we wanted to do, but it seems pointless.

What good comes out of praying to someone nobody truly knows exists? Faith shouldn’t be blind if it’s meant to be followed. Where’s reason? Where’s proof that believing in God actually makes death any less terrifying?

Maybe you’ll see Lo.

Maybe…

It’s not enough though.

Doubt creeps into the cracks that one day may allow me to see Lo. Doubt is Fear’s best friend—the little demon I’m well acquainted with that rests on my shoulder and whispers everything I have to be afraid of in my ear.

What if death is death?

What if I never see Lo?

What if Mama loses it completely?

What if.

What if.

What if.

I’m fed every insecurity and internal dread that can beat me down. One day, I may not get up. I may not survive it. It could end me.

Exhaustion swipes over me as I stare blurry-eyed at Lo’s headstone. I want to reach out and touch her name like I’m touching her hand, her hair, her face. I want to hug her just one more time.

Just one more.

I curl up on my side on the ground, right over her grave, and pretend she’s right here with me like I’ve done in the summertime.

Sometime later…I fall asleep.

There’s cursing. Cursing and shivering.

Why am I so cold?

Suddenly I’m being cradled in warmth, floating in air. Everything hurts. My limbs. My face. My muscles. I think my teeth are chattering but I’m too numb to know for sure.

Forcing my gaze over the muscular shoulder of the person holding me, I see Lo’s headstone fading away. I squirm, cry out, and plead for the person to set me down.

“Lo!” My voice is hoarse as I reach out behind me.

“Stop, Emery,” a familiar voice demands. The grip on me tightens, keeping me in place against him. “Dammit, Mouse. What the hell were you doing sleeping out here? It’s fucking forty degrees.”

Mouse.