Page 85 of The Second Dance

48.

Andy

I park in the lane and drag the bulky camera bag out of the back seat.

Ed wanted me to get photos of the Warton place.

I stop by my car, looking down at the little valley. Raindrops still cling to the tall grass. The sky is bright and clear, like it’s been washed clean.

Early blooms dot the pasture with pink and lavender.

And down by the pond, a newly built gazebo overlooks the water.

Hefting the camera bag over my shoulder, I stumble and slip my way down the slope. Bo would have a fit over my clothes.

The wet grass quickly soaks the skirt of my sundress, making it stick to my legs. My little ballet flats are soggy and offer no traction on this uneven ground.

But I am determined to sit down there.

The gazebo snugs up to the pond. A short dock leans over the water.

For fishing, I’m betting.

I drop down onto one of the benches and look around.

The hackberry is in bloom. And so are the other trees Bo added.

Juneberry.

Dogwood.

The trees I pointed out when we were in Lincoln together, but we didn’t buy.

He went back.

I run my hand along the bench and wonder when he found the time to do all of this.

And why?

My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I close my eyes, tipping my head back.

The sounds filter in around me.

The lilting call of the meadowlark.

The soft tones of the mourning dove.

Bird song.

The longer I listen, the more birds I can identify. It’s working. This habitat of ours. It almost seems like magic, but I know it’s not.

Two hands built this preserve.

Two hands that have held me and wiped away my tears.

And I miss him so damn much.

I hear a soft rustle of wings and look up to see a sweet little chickadee hopping along the wooden rail opposite me. Carefully, moving at a glacial pace, I pull my camera out and snap a few shots before it flits away. Pushing to my feet, I turn and start taking photos.