Sarah’s Saint – VI

The day arrived. It was no surprise to me that it would be dull and gray, wind whipping and the rain lashing. I stood at the window, gathering my courage. “One last time,” I whispered, hugging myself as if it would give me strength.

Walking over to the mantel, I let my fingers trace the words beneath his name – ‘Son, brother, husband.’ There were no other words I could write. What do you say? Here lies a man who beat his wife and died a miserable, lonely death? Survived only by the spouse he battered and bruised, he died in the hospital after a slow and painful battle with cancer? I couldn’t do that. Not even to him, so I stated the facts. He was a son, brother and husband.

Grabbing the urn, I headed for the door. My plan was to bury him at the beach. The one place we had been happy. The beach was before his parents had died, before his brother had taken his life, and he had turned in on himself. It was a place filled with laughter and love. Perhaps that is why I’m drawn to it. I was always happy there. Pain, anger, hatred and bitterness didn’t exist there.

I strapped the urn into the front passenger seat and stood back. Even in death, I seemed to be doing things for him. The wind lashed at my hair as if in anger. I could not see without holding it back. An awful day for an awful man, I thought before asking forgiveness for my cruel thoughts. It seemed I had more forgiving to do.

The roads were empty. Everyone else had chosen to stay inside today, safe from the fury of the storm. Turning down the beach road, I wondered if I should return home and come back when it was sunny. As if to answer my unspoken question, the rain stopped, and the wind died down.

I put the car in park and sat for a while watching the waves as they crested and fell. Like a life struggling to survive, rising and then crashing before trying again. No, today was the perfect day. His life was not all sunshine and calm waters. Though there had been good times, it was messy, stormy, and at times horrendous. He told me about the horrors of growing up with an alcoholic father who had beaten him, and a mother who belittled him. His brother was the golden child who could do no wrong. He once said I was the only bright thing in his life. In the end, he came to hate me for it. He told me I made him turn into his father, but the reality was he held onto the anger for far too long. It ate him from the inside out. In his sickness, he turned to alcohol to numb the pain, and in doing so, he turned into his father.

Retrieving the urn, I turned and walked down the beach towards what once was our spot. I don’t sit there anymore, but it was a happy place for us once upon a time. Like the roads, the beach was empty, still I checked for onlookers who might take offence to what I was about to do. Seeing no one, I removed the lid and began scattering his ashes amid the tall grassy reeds. When I was done, I stood back. A good rain would soak the ashes into the ground. Not knowing what to say, I simply said, “Thank you for the times that were good. I forgive you for the rest.”

Walking to our rock, I found a soft patch of sand and began digging. One day, somebody would find the empty urn and wonder why it was buried there. My fingers were achy and sore. I searched until I found a piece of driftwood to help me dig. One would think to bring a shovel for such an occasion, but then again, watching someone coming to, or from a beach with a large spade might make one ask too many questions. Eventually, the hole was deep enough that I could bury the urn without it being uncovered. Filling the hole, I thought about all the times he had told me he’d bury me in the hard cold ground before his days were done. “You were wrong,” I whispered before rising.

I walked back down the beach to my favourite spot. I saw her waiting there for me as I rounded the bend. She did not walk to meet me but waited until I reached her.

“Some things are best done by oneself,” she said as I sat down.

“Yes, I suppose you are right.”

We sat in silence for a long time. Finally, I looked over and smiled. “Thank you for being here. Is it okay that you are? Here, I mean, during my waking hours?

“If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, there is no one else around that would spy you talking to yourself on the beach.” She found her statement funny and began to laugh. Her laughter brought sunshine and warmth. We sat, neither saying anything for quite a while. It was nice to have someone to sit with in silence. Less lonely somehow.

“You did a good thing today.”

I smiled. “It was the last thing I had to do.”

“Now, the rest is up to you.” She watched me as I pondered her words.

“I think the rest is up to Him,” I said, pointing towards heaven. “His will, not mine be done, and all that good stuff.”

Her laugh was like a melody. “Yes. Yes, it is, but you need to make that choice every day. How you live, and treat others – and yourself. It’s all a choice.”

We retreated into our silence. Eventually, it was time to return. Whether I knew this because she vanished, or because the rain had started again, I could not say. I took one last look down the beach. The bend hid him from view, but I knew where he was scattered. He was not there. Not really. I whispered, “I forgive you,” one last time before turning and walking away. No longer would he hurt or bring me sorrow. I was finally free.

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If you are enjoying Sarah’s Saint, you may like other short faith stories which you can find on the Faith Stories link of Leslie’s website.