The Last Wish of Sasha Cade

He peers at the note scribbled on the outside of the envelope in pink Sharpie. “‘If possible, read me before the sun rises.’”

We both gaze upward, judging how long it’ll be before a ball of orange ascends into the cloudless sky above.

Elijah flicks his wrist toward me. “You want to do the honors again? I like the sound of your voice.”

“Um, sure.” I take the envelope and slide my finger underneath the seal, taking out another handwritten letter. “It’s kind of long,” I say, pulling the two pages apart. “Maybe we should sit down?”

Elijah gestures to the steps in front of us, then sits on the top one. I join him, and try not to think about how he doesn’t pull away when my knee touches his.

“Okay,” I say, exhaling. “Ready for this?”

“I’m ready if you are,” Elijah says, his voice like honey.

I glance at the emerging orange glow above the tree line, and then focus on Sasha’s words.

“‘In the 1800s, Peyton Roberts was born a slave in Virginia. At the end of the civil war, he became a free man and moved west, settling right here in our hometown. That’s how Peyton Colony got its name. From a man born a slave. I find that really inspiring, that how you’re born doesn’t reflect how you’ll die. Peyton’s community founded this church in 1874, and like all good and noble things, it’s fallen into disarray.

“‘But at least it got historical landmark status, amirite? You can read the history in more detail on that metal landmark sign by the road.

“‘You’re probably wondering why I brought you here, especially since my parents are nondenominational Christian and not Baptist. Well … that day Gran died … Rocki, you might remember, well, I ran away. My mom called an ambulance for Gran, and in the crazed nightmare that followed, I hopped on my bike and got the hell out of there. I pedaled for what felt like freaking years and years, but it was really only 11.4 miles, and I found the landmark and decided to read it, if only for something to take my mind off Gran.

“‘I was really inspired by the story of Peyton Roberts, since earlier that week, Gran and I were talking about how I probably have some African-American relatives in my biological family tree. After reading the sign, I biked up the gravel road and saw the church. I had a good ol’-fashioned yelling match with God, right then and there. I balled my fists and I screamed at the little cross on the door, and I told God that I hated him for doing this to me. To Gran.’”

I stop reading because my mind is blown. So that’s where she went. She was here that night, and she never told anyone. Not even me.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Elijah says, his knee pushing into mine a little.

I lick my lips and stare at the paper. “She never told me this.”

“So keep reading. She’s telling us now.”

I nod, let up on my bottom lip and keep reading.

“‘Soon it got dark, and I got scared. I wasn’t sure how to get home and I knew that crazy murderers drove around at night, so I broke into the back door and went inside the church. It was terrifying, being in there all alone in the dark. I was heartbroken over Gran, feeling guilty that maybe it was my fault and pissed at God. I didn’t know what else to do, so I lay on a pew and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dawn. The blue windows beckoned to me, and I followed them until I saw the sun rising up over the farm to the right. I went back outside and I sat on the front steps —’”

The energy between Elijah and me ramps up at this. We look at each other, almost as if we both expect to see Sasha right here, right now. I take a shaky breath and return to the letter.

“‘It may sound silly now, after the fact, when we’re all grown up and all, but back then, this moment

was magical. I sat on the steps and watched the sun rise, and I swear to you both, I met God that day.

“‘I felt him. I felt his warmth and love, and I felt him grieving for my loss. He didn’t actually say anything — this wasn’t like Moses and the burning bush — but I felt it. I just knew. I just knew that God existed. That Gran died and that it sucked, but I wasn’t abandoned. I’ve never felt anything so crystal clear in my life, never had anything more reassuring since then. I just knew he was there, and that it would all be okay.

“‘I cried, I thanked God and I went home. The cops were looking for me, and my parents were freaked the hell out, but once they saw me, it was all okay. As I knew it would be.

“‘For the most part, things have been okay since then. And now, as I’m sitting here on these stairs again, writing this letter to you guys, I think I finally understand. Maybe Gran died just so I’d have that moment, that clarity and assurance. I am not afraid to die. I know I’ll be okay. I don’t think the same would have been true if Gran had never taken her life and I never came here as an angry kid who needed answers. Maybe everything does happen for a reason.’”

The sun is rising, spilling out golden rays all over the dew-coated grass. To the right, we watch the farm from Sasha’s letter, a small shadow in the enormity of the sunrise. And then it happens. Subtle, like the rising rays of sun, I feel her.

“Whoa,” I whisper. I feel her everywhere. My eyes tear up but I don’t bother blinking them away as I picture a frightened Sasha sitting on these same steps all those years ago, taking hope and grace from the last place she thought she’d find it.

Elijah takes my hand, his rough fingers lacing between mine. No words are needed to know he feels it, too. It only takes a few seconds for the sun to do its thing, but those few seconds are every bit as powerful as they were when Sasha felt them, judging by the way he clutches my hand in his. I lean against his shoulder, my cheek pressing into his T-shirt. His head lowers on top of mine.

“It really is magical,” Elijah says. Hand in hand, we watch the earth wake up before our eyes. Sasha was right; in this moment, everything does feel okay.

Everything will be okay.

“Is that all she said?” Elijah asks a few minutes later, his voice softer than the singing birds nearby.