The skies are clear on the day of the funeral.
Moet squirms in her wheelchair as the patched-up wound in her chest throbs with pain in time with her pulse. Soon after Leighton called the police that day, the ambulance had arrived and he’d ridden with her to the hospital where she went into surgery to get the bullet out. The surgery went well, obviously, but she was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of the week or so until the doctor gave an okay.
It turned out Ella didn’t plan on killing Dakota. She was an insomniac and walking around in the woods helped her sleep. The gun was their father’s and she carried it with her to feel safe at night. Dakota was wandering around, drugged-up and suicidal when she came into contact with Ella. She started her usual routine of verbal torment and when she stepped too close, Ella panicked and shot her dead. There wasn’t much else to say after that. And Moet couldn’t stand looking at her face anymore so she wheeled herself out of the room as fast as she could while ignoring the pain in her chest as she did so.
The service was over and only Leighton and Moet were left to stare at the tombstone by themselves. During the service, it was the first time Moet had ever seen her mother cry. And it was the first time she ever saw her father comfort someone rather than asking a few questions and slipping away unnoticed.
In the present, she sees a figure approach her from the side with slow, lumbering steps.
“So it’s all over, huh?” Quinn says as he stares at the headstone.
Dakota Holmes
1994-2012
No inscriptions. It was impossible to sum up Dakota in a sentence.
“Hey, Leighton,” Quinn greets him with a half-hearted wave. Leighton nods in response. Then, Quinn turns back to Moet. “I brought something.” He slowly walks up to the tombstone, kneels in front of it and places a sunflower over the freshly turned dirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to Dakota. “I love you.”
Moet tears her gaze away from him with a lump in her throat to see an all-too-familiar figure sitting on top of the headstone with her legs crossed and head tilted towards the quietly grieving boy at her feet. A sad smile graces her lips and she runs her ghostly fingers through his hair. The girl leans down to brush a kiss on his cheek that he doesn’t notice before looking up and smiling at Moet.
“Thank you,” she mouths and gives her a small wave before she fades, fades away.
Moet sees Quinn rub his cheek absent-mindedly and the small gesture makes her heart lighten and a smile spread across her face. And she swears on her own life that she could smell the bittersweet scent of strawberries and cigarettes waft through the wind, through the earth, through the universe as Moet looks at Leighton and Leighton looks at her and everything, she realizes, is finally okay.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary Elizabeth Frye
YOU ARE READING
Strawberries & Cigarettes
Teen FictionShe has obsessive-compulsive disorder. He finished all the required classes for graduating by his freshman year. She trains in ballet four hours a day, five days a week. He doesn’t understand people. She’s scared of waking up. He’s scared of not kn...
