Chapter 14 - The Anniversary of the Frost
By November, the first frost of my nineteenth year coated the maples outside the bungalow.
The anniversary of my father’s death arrived on a crisp, clear Thursday. In the past, that date had been marked by cold silence, walking on eggshells around my mother, and swallowing grief because emotional expression was labeled "drama."
This year, I woke up early, pulled on a heavy wool sweater, and walked out into the backyard.
The daffodil bulbs I had planted in the spring had long since bloomed and faded, leaving behind rich, dark soil ready for the winter dormancy. I poured two cups of black coffee, carrying one out to the old wooden bench beneath the maple tree.
I sat down, listening to the distant hum of morning traffic on the highway, and pulled Grandpa Harold’s cedar box onto my lap. Inside sat the final note he had ever written me, alongside a fresh photograph of the Fourth Street plaza thriving under independent management, and my university dean’s list certificate from my first semester in accounting.
I didn't cry. But I didn't suppress my feelings either. I simply sat there, letting the memory of my father and the steady, grounding presence of my grandparents wash over me like warm sunlight.
My phone buzzed on the bench beside me. It was a text from David Caldwell, reminding me of our routine quarterly review on Friday.
May you like
I picked up the phone, tapped out a brief confirmation, and set it aside.
The silence around me wasn't a cage anymore. It was peace.
