Scene: Saint Thomas More Church. Nate is standing on the kneeler. Sandy is seated to his left and Dad is seated to his right. Monsignor Fitzgerald is preparing the altar.
Dad (sotto voce): Oh dear.
Sandy: What’s wrong?
Dad: Nate put his used Kleenex in the collection basket.
Sarah died three years ago today.
The hospital cafeteria sent breakfast to the ICU, for those of us who had spent most of the night keeping vigil. I remember thinking how strange that was, orange juice and a bagel, and the sun coming up, and Sarah gone.
I remember Beth driving me to the rehab hospital to pick up Sarah’s things, and the Irish nurse saying, “Och, and the little one!” (meaning Nate, of course).
And Beth snapping at her, “You’re not helping,” and muttering imprecations under her breath as we waited for the elevator, holding paper bags full of comfy clothes and get-well cards. I had to laugh, in spite of everything.
I can remember everything about that day, but I would rather not. I choose to remember Sarah laughing, standing at the wheel of her parents’ sailboat, holding Nate on her hip.
And I choose to look ahead, not back.