…they weren’t just about crocheting. They were about patience. About care. About paying attention to the small things.” Her voice caught, and she blinked back tears. “I miss you every day.”
Rebecca stepped closer, brushing her hand along the cool granite. “You changed our lives. You taught us how to let people in again. How to love without fear, even after loss.” She smiled faintly. “And you taught me that dinner… dinner is never just dinner.”
The wind rustled the trees above, golden leaves swirling gently to the ground like a blessing.
Michael poured a bit of wine into two small ceramic cups, the same ones Barney and Mimi had used during their visits. He set them beside the roast chicken. “To love,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “To family. Chosen or otherwise.”
They stood in silence for a while, each lost in their own memories. Then, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Rebecca gathered her daughters close.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go home.”
As they walked down the hill, the warmth of a thousand shared meals followed behind them. The porch lights flicked on along Silver Oak Street, one by one, like fireflies.
And though two of its brightest stars were gone, their light had not gone out.
It had simply passed on, from one table to another.
Forever.
Leave a Reply