Coyote Lost and Found (Coyote Sunrise #2)

by Dan Gemeinhart

That’s the kind of person my mom was. The kind of person who could make it rain flowers. The kind of person who noticed. The kind of person who stopped and spoke in a magical whisper so that you’d notice, too. And you’d remember. Even after the day was gone, and even after the flowers were gone, and even after she was gone. You’d remember her, and that moment.

Boy. He was right. He was one hundred percent right. Leave it to a best friend to make you feel like a million bucks and a total piece of crap in one conversation.

None of this was fair. And when a big ball of mad that white-hot builds up inside you and it’s all mixed up with sadness and heartbreak and, yeah, maybe some embarrassment, sometimes all it needs is a target.

The thing about white-hot anger, maybe, is that holding it in feels awful, but letting it all out feels even worse.

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” I said. He gave me half a grin. “Good thing you don’t have to.”

At one point, as we all quietly cleaned, I looked over and saw my dad. Kneeling, by himself. Mostly turned away from me. He was looking at his hands. Kind of turning them over, rubbing his fingers together. Looking at that ash. That ash that was my mom. And I remembered: He’d never looked in the box. Not before, not with me, not on this trip. This was the first time he was seeing Mom again. “Hey, baby,” I heard him say, quiet and ragged. So quiet only I could hear. So ragged I had to blink and look away.

😭

“But then, I realized something. I realized how very, very lucky I was. I mean, for goodness’ sake, I outlived my knees! I outlived my hair, and my eyes, and my skin!” She laughed and threw her hands in the air. She looked delighted. “And that’s a … good thing?” “Good?” Doreen said with a little shrug. “It’s a lucky thing, at least. Because there are plenty who don’t, dear.” Her voice got quiet. “Too many. People I’ve known and loved, wonderful people, who didn’t get to outlive very much. Didn’t outlive their parents. Didn’t outlive their childhood, even. People I’ve known and loved and lost too soon, who never got to see and feel all that I’ve got to see and feel.” She shook her head. “How much would they give to have more time? To outlive their knees?”

“So when good things happen—sunsets, delicious meals, beautiful music, new friends—I think: How lucky am I? But, also, when those unpleasant, being-an-old-person things happen—achy knees, a sore back, and false teeth—I think: How lucky am I?”