The Empty Jar(73)

Always.

That says it all.

There is nothing left to say.

********

Dinner is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Every flavor explodes on the surface of my tongue, and every bite is like the first I’ve ever taken. It’s more than a last meal. It’s a last experience.

I take my time and chew thoroughly, not wanting to mar the moment with choking and hacking. Eating had never been a chore before, but has certainly become one recently.

Although I am thrilled to have eaten a quarter of the steak Nate grilled and nearly a third of the small pile of potato I scooped from the peel, everyone else eyes my accomplishment with concern.

The message is clear.

And they all know it.

Nissa stays to help clean up. She and Nate are in the kitchen when I spot a bright blink through the patio door and get a better idea.

“Nate! Nissa!” I call. Both come running, alarm carved on their faces. “Let’s go catch lightning bugs. With Grace. And Momma. You can film us, can’t you, Nissa?”

Although her smile is soggy, my friend nods enthusiastically.

Wordlessly, Nate collects an empty Mason jar from the cupboard and brings it out. He hands it to Nissa along with his phone and then stoops to scoop me into his arms. His expression is meant to be neutral, I know, but I can see the way his mouth is pinched at the corners.

Bittersweet.

I feel it.

And he feels it.

I rest my head on his shoulder as we all make our way to the patio. I look out at the view—my home, my yard, and the night—with eyes that strain to memorize every last detail. I take in the white rattan furniture I fell in love with on one of our trips to the beach. I take in the cheerful row of pink and red roses that sway gently in the breeze. I take in the perfectly manicured lawn that I can’t remember Nate cutting this year, as well as the cobalt sky that is coming alive with the yellow flash of lightning bugs.

I’ve been happy here, with my husband, in our home. So happy. We’ve been so blessed, even when I couldn’t see it that way, when I’d been more aware of what we lacked—a child. But I can see it now. I can see all the smiles, hear all the laughter, feel all the love. This is home. And I wouldn’t want to die anywhere else.

When Nate moves to set me on a lounge chair, I pat his chest in protest. “No, I want to hold Grace while you and Momma catch them. Is that okay?”

I wanted to be the one to capture the little bugs for my daughter, but I know my level of fatigue is too great to risk it. It will likely be all I can muster just to hold my daughter out in the yard as the others do the catching.

He nods. “Of course, baby. Just let me know if you get too tired.” Gently, Nate lowers me until my feet touch the pavers then reluctantly releases me, his fingers lingering as though each digit knows the opportunity for moments like this is coming to an end.

With a smile that I feel light me up from the inside out, I approach my mother and daughter. Grace is awake and sucking on her pacifier. When I lean over her and grin, Grace smiles and coos as though she knows that her momma is close and she can feel the laser beam of love coming at her.

I hope that’s the case. I wish that I could bottle my love and leave it for my daughter so that she’d be able to take it out and let it warm her whenever she’s feeling cold or blue. Since that’s out of the question, though, I pray that the videos will suffice.

“Hey there, beautiful,” I whisper as I take my child from my own mother’s arms. Momma attempts a smile, but it looks more like a rickety grimace. I shift Grace to one side and press my lips to my mother’s cheek. “Thank you for taking care of her today.”

Momma makes no response, and I understand why. What is there to say? Nothing that hasn’t already been said.

Turning and crossing back to my husband, the trio of adults steps out into the cool grass and walks toward the biggest cluster of light. I can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up as the grass tickles my feet. It’s as though I can feel each individual blade as it drags across my skin. My every nerve and sense seems hyperalert, and I’m committing it all to memory, a memory that will soon burn out like the glow of these lightning bugs.

Tonight, I know I will not only chase the lightning bugs, but I will do as my father did, and I will follow them as well. On to where they never stop shining.

On to heaven.

“Get that one,” I say to Nate, tipping my chin at a lightning bug that’s close enough and low enough for him to reach. He stretches out one long arm and taps the bug, which then lights on his finger. Nate holds it out to Grace and me, the slow, steady wink of light almost hypnotic in the night.

“Look, Gracie!” I tilt my daughter toward her father and then look back at Nissa, who isn’t far away, filming us. I smile at my friend through the lens. Nissa waves, and I see a tear slide down her cheek to pause on her trembling upper lip.

“Say hi to Nissa, Grace. She’ll help you with all your clothes and makeup and jewelry. All the fun, girly stuff.” I take my daughter’s tiny, chubby hand and wave it at the camera. A lightning bug appears between us as if by magic, its belly flashing yellow in the dark. “Oh! Oh! Get this one, Momma!”

Obediently, my mom grabs the little bug and places it in the palm of her opposite hand then holds it up for my inspection.

“Perfect,” I declare, a blend of overwhelming happiness and pure agony burning the backs of my eyes.