I couldn’t tell if I was unraveling or if something far more sinister was at play. When I came back from the cemetery, the bouquet I had just laid on my wife’s grave was standing in a vase on my kitchen table. I buried her and my guilt five years ago, yet it felt as though the past had clawed its way out of the ground to find me.
The weight of grief is strange. It doesn’t vanish with time; it only changes shape, pressing on your heart in moments you least expect. It’s been five years since I lost my wife, Seraphina, and yet every morning I still wake up reaching for the other side of the bed, half-expecting to find her there.
Our daughter, Isabelle, was just thirteen when her mother d..i.ed. She’s eighteen now—taller, sharper, carrying herself with a maturity she was forced to grow into far too soon. She doesn’t talk about her mother much, but I see the absence written in her eyes like a shadow that never leaves.
The calendar on the kitchen wall mocked me that morning. A red circle marked the day. The anniversary.
The reminder I didn’t need but still couldn’t bring myself to erase. My stomach twisted as I grabbed my keys. “I’m heading to the cemetery, Izzy,” I called, my voice heavier than I intended.
Isabelle leaned against the doorway, her arms folded. “It’s that time again, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone flat. I only nodded.
There were no words big enough to bridge the chasm between us when it came to Seraphina. What could I say? That I missed her, too?
That I was sorry Isabelle had to grow up half-orphaned? None of it would be enough. So I slipped on my jacket and left, letting silence swallow what I couldn’t say.
The florist’s shop smelled of roses and lilies, overwhelming in its sweetness. The woman behind the counter looked up with soft eyes. “The usual, Mr.
Callahan?” she asked gently. “Yes,” I said. “White roses.
Just like always.”
She nodded, wrapping them in paper. As I waited, a memory surfaced uninvited: the third date I ever had with Seraphina. I’d shown up at her door with trembling hands and a clumsy bouquet.
She had laughed when I nearly dropped them, her green eyes sparkling. “Patrick, you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” she’d teased, kissing my cheek. The memory faded like mist as the florist handed me the bouquet.
“Here you go,” she said. “I’m sure she’d love them.”
“I hope so,” I murmured. The cemetery was quiet, only the wind stirring through the trees.
I walked the narrow path until the black marble headstone came into view. Her name—Seraphina Marie Callahan—was etched in shimmering gold. I knelt and set the roses against the stone.
My fingers brushed the letters, tracing them as though touching her name might bring her closer. “I miss you, Sera,” I whispered. “God, I miss you so much.”
A gust of wind brushed against my cheek, cold and soft like a phantom caress.
For one fleeting moment, I let myself imagine it was her hand, her presence. But reality was cruel. She was gone.
And no amount of wishing would change that. “I’ll be back next year,” I promised, brushing dirt from my knees. “I won’t stop coming.”
I walked back to the car with a heaviness pressing on my chest, though something about today felt different—like an unseen weight hung in the air.
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