The moment had come. I stood beside the open sepulchre, breathless at dashing from work to be here at the cemetery at this appointed time. I trembled with emotions long buried and now resurrecting. I’d opted to work today, as usual, and await the summons from the funeral home when the truck bearing such precious cargo arrived. I’d thought it would help to keep my mind occupied until this moment.

The past two weeks had been hell. The decision to move our daughter’s remains began soon after Dad died and was buried, according to his wishes, in the little church cemetery where generations of Whitman ancestors lie. No Ph.D. inscriptions mark their headstones. My kin were poor, simple, good folk who were too busy surviving squalor to worry much about schooling. Not until my dad’s generation was education upgraded to “important.”

My gaze swung to his headstone, a low-cut marble one that not only meets Anne’s fashionable criterion but also allows the custodian to mow flush and maintain a well-kept look. I stood between Dad’s green mound and the gaping earth readied to receive my daughter’s corpse.

My attention skittered to Dawn, whose long, denimed legs dangled lazily from her perch on a nearby, older tombstone, a pose so at odds with her grief-ravaged face that my breath hitched. Last week, she’d waged a fierce appeal to view her sister’s remains.

“Mom, it’s not unthinkable, you know,” insisted my wonderful strong-willed girl-woman. “Medgar Evers was disinterred after thirty five years and was so well-preserved they held a wake. Krissie’s been dead at least ten years less. There’s a good chance she could be viewed.”

The room had begun to spin as I gazed at her, not knowing how to react.

Dawn’s voice rose slowly, steadily, like an elevator. “Wouldn’t you like to see her once more, Mama? I mean – just once more?” Her stricken azure gaze beseeched me to agree.

Tears filled my eyes and I pinched my forehead. “Oh, Dawn – I don’t think I could say goodbye again...I said goodbye all those years ago. I don’t know that I can do it again.”

“But Mom – I’ve never seen her.” Her declaration was a whimper, an unheard of thing for Dawn, one that pierced me. Of course, she wanted to see her sister. Everybody in the family remembered the live Krissie, could still hear and feel her energy, her laughter, her goodness and her love. We’d all known her.

All except Dawn. Now she stood before me, her need a throbbing passion.

I took a deep steadying breath and gazed at her. “I’ll talk with the funeral director and see what he says, honey. I understand how you feel. I’ll do everything I can to make this happen.”

And I had. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. “Discourage Dawn,” had been the mortician’s counsel. “Occasionally, a viewing is possible, but more often, it isn’t. Once the vault’s seal is broken,” he shrugged, “It won’t reseal. Not only would you have to go to the expense of a new vault, there is no guarantee you’d get a viewing.”

Kirk had made the final difficult decision not to risk it. For once, I yearned with all my heart for the affluence to disregard monetary concerns during that emotional decision. But we’d already spent well over two thousand dollars to disinter and relocate the burial site. New vault prices began near a thousand, not a sum to sneeze at nor one that fit into our already strained budget. By now, I’d curtailed to part-time work in order to spend more time writing and had published some short stories. All with Kirk’s blessing. Kirk was, again, the main breadwinner. Without his financejuggling genius, we’d not have enjoyed as many comforts.

Had I been in charge, we’d have been destitute.

Still, it stung that we couldn’t simply order the vault seal broken. I keenly felt Dawn’s disappointment and lost dream. But an amazing thing happened. Dawn took the defeat with remarkable grace and pitched herself into planning the memorial service set for the upcoming Sunday afternoon.

Today, on its eve, our family congregated at the cemetery to watch the earth-stained vault poise majestically in honeysuckleflavored stillness to bid us a brief, somber greeting. Warm golden May sunlight kissed its metallic surface for the first time in twentyodd years. Our moist-eyed regard was hushed and reverent, almost apologetic for disturbing the eternal rest.

Dawn hovered closely, her features grim and deferential. Her banker husband, Charles, an Al Pacino, drop dead gorgeous look-alike, watched her with concern, his arm draped protectively around her.

I missed Heather’s calming presence. She, Sam and their daughter Angela would arrive late tonight, along with Toby and his family, for tomorrow’s ceremony. Sam had begun attending church with Heather in their first year of marriage and experienced a conversion experience that still had my eyes rolling with astonishment. Watch out, world! Sam Chase would be a pulpit-dynamo.

He and Heather’s move to Asbury, Kentucky, situated them two streets from Toby’s family and settled the brothers-in-law, elbow-to-elbow, in the seminary’s theological school. At times, I had to tack my feet to the floor to keep from leaping into infinity with joy. They would all drive in a caravan, arriving late tonight, Toby, wife Joellen, three daughters Michelle, Tiffany and Kennedy and Heather’s family.

That supportive family unity helped me through today’s sadness. It helped me watch the crane lower the casket into earth once more and stifle a piercing cry at life’s injustice. It helped me face tomorrow.

Sunday dawned fair and sunny. Today was my bittersweet, poignant Mother’s Day gift. A sweet gardenia-laced breeze caressed my face ever so gently, and I knew she was present. I felt her essence, that indefinable, ageless, unique aura that depicted Krissie the baby, toddler, child and adolescent at once. I experienced anew the splintering regret that she’d not experienced adulthood. Never been kissed and romanced. Never known motherhood. So many nevers.

I took a deep breath and watched cars arrive, lining themselves along the quiet country lane that wound through the cemetery. Only family and intimate friends were invited. I wanted no curious gawkers. Not now, after all these years when I was more aware. At the long ago funeral service, I’d been trauma-anesthetized, seeing only those caring, life-sustaining gestures at the end of my nose. All else had blurred into merciful insignificance. Today, clarity and hindsight jarred me. The idea, that time had wiped away much of the pain, shattered.

I blinked against a red haze and watched Dawn, tall and blonde and elegant in a hunter green silk pants ensemble, solemnly place an artist’s easel at the head of the new flower decked mound. Charles handed her the eleven-by-fourteen portrait of the beautiful blonde, smiling Krissie in her favorite strawberry dress. The resemblance between the two sisters still took my breath at times. Dawn reverently placed it on the easel and draped blue ribbon streamers from a bow mounted atop the stand over the corners of the picture and stepped back to honor the moment’s gravity.

Heather moved to put an arm around her sister as the gathering settled into hushed stillness. Toby and Joellen linked hands, with Michelle, five, Tiffany, three, and Kennedy, just turned eighteen months, pressed to their legs like cherubs to a baroque column in old Rome.

Kirk began the ceremony by leading in the Lord’s Prayer. At its end, my siblings, Dale, Lynette and Cole harmonized, a cappella, the gospel song Sheltered in the Arms of God.

Oh my, how clearly those words spoke to me now. Strange how, after the fact of separation, those words comforted me so profoundly. Kirk’s strong fingers laced with mine and squeezed just before he stepped forward to speak a few words.

“This service is purposefully informal. We – Janeece and I – want each of you who knew Krissie to feel free to share your most meaningful memory of her with us all. I’d like to begin with my recall of daily, early morning drives to school. I was chauffeur, of course, and we listened to the Carpenter’s music tape every day as we rode together. When they got out of the car, Krissie always turned to wave goodbye to me and then escort Toby as far as she could before turning to go to her class. I can still see her – ” Suddenly his voice broke and he began to weep. I took him in my arms and held him as his body quaked with grief and I realized that, all those years, this sorrow had been just below the surface.

I heard, behind me, Dawn’s sobs as Heather and Charles comforted her. So my Dawnie had connected with her sister. Finally, she shared our loss.

Immediately, my brother Dale began to reminisce about his and Krissie’s last time together, a month before her death, when, during our Christmas visit home, the two of them had wrapped Dale’s gifts to friends, then traipsed over the village, delivering them. Then, Lynette recalled how, during her visits to Solomon, she’d loved wearing Krissie’s pink jeans and sweater ensemble. “Knowing Neecy didn’t have more laundry to do in the machine, Krissie would hand wash and hang the outfit in the bathroom to dry by morning so I could wear it. She was always doing things like that to make me happy,” my sister, now the mother of a son, said.

One by one, relatives and friends spoke of Krissie, some provoking laughter, some tears, many sharing things before unrevealed, giving further glimpses into an extraordinary life ended too soon. I listened, too moved to say anything throughout the service. I noticed, too, Heather’s silence and Toby’s.

Has time distanced them from the emotions now sucking me down the drain? I wondered. Neither of them, who’d known Krissie’s sweetness, wept. Dawn, who’d never known her, cried forlornly. I’d never used a yardstick to measure emotions – except for that brief lapse with Toby following Krissie’s death. And then, unconsciously. I could not assume Heather’s equanimity today indicated lack of love. Nor Toby’s. Yet, it tugged my heart.

Kirk’s hand gently squeezed mine. I looked up at him and saw me mirrored in his face.

No words were necessary. His was the affinity I sought. Not my children’s, whose loss was unspeakable. Only Kirk’s toll equaled mine. Only his grief had held out against time as had mine. Time had not, nor would it, dim our sorrow, which was not an incessant, indulgent angst. Time had erected diversions along our odyssey, some ecstatic, some agonizing, some simply a smooth running river of happenings. Life had bequeathed tomorrows with promising horizons. Yet – at times such as this, when smacked broadside with the fact of Krissie’s absence, our anguish erupted violently, as though no time bridged us from then to now.

It wasn’t, as one well-meaning friend recently hinted, a simple fact of Kirk and me “getting on with your lives now that you’ve relocated the grave.” In other words, “Get over it.” Ahhh, such distanced assumptions serve well those who’ve never buried one’s own child. A neat, pat rationale. Problem was it rarely applied to reality. I clasped Kirk’s warm, big, callused fingers, marinating in the bittersweet, uncoveted bond we shared.

The service ended with Heather, accompanying herself on guitar, singing in her clear contralto soprano Seasons in the Sun, Krissie’s favorite serious song. It’s poignant, almost prophetical lyrics struck me as never before. “Goodbye to you, my trusted friend, we’ve known each other since we were nine or ten; Together we’ve climbed hills and trees, Learned of love and A-B-C’s, skinned our hearts and skinned our knees. Goodbye my friend, it’s hard to die...when all the birds are singing in the sky; Now that Spring is in the air, pretty girls are everywhere, Think of me and I’ll be there. We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun: But the hills that we climb were just seasons out of time.”

As the music faded, the only sounds heard in the hushed country setting was that of quiet snuffling, men blowing their noses and birdsong from a nearby copse of elms. Something caught my misty peripheral vision – I watched a butterfly soar overhead, then light atop Krissie’s portrait. My breath stopped. The yellow wings fluttered for long moments as everyone watched, mesmerized.

Then, as dramatically as it arrived, the beautiful creature lifted, arced gracefully and disappeared before our eyes. Nobody spoke for long moments, then slowly, reluctantly, folks began to stir and talk quietly amongst themselves. I continued to gaze at the portrait, blue ribbons swaying in the warm breeze.

“Janeece?” I felt a touch at my elbow.

“Cal!” I turned into her arms and we embraced for a long, long time. “I’m so glad you made it. Did Roger? I know he was supposed to work.”

“He’s here. Somebody else is here, too, Kirk,” she hugged my husband and, holding onto his arm, turned to gaze into the gathering. “Moose?” she called.

Next thing I knew, Moose McElrath had his arms around Kirk, rocking back and forth and sobbing his heart out. “Ahh, Kirk,” he said when he was able to speak, “how did things ever git the way they did between us? I knowed how Roxie was when I married her. No – ” he shushed Kirk when he tried to speak, “I shouldn’t’a flew off at you like that. Sure, I loved her, but if I was honest, I’d have to say she was driving me crazy with her spending and demanding and – well,” he hung his head for a moment and murmured, “she’d stopped being a wife to me long before I took off. I suspected she was runnin’ around. See – ” He squared his shoulders and resolutely looked Kirk in the eye, “what I didn’t tell you was that Roxie wasn’t only a dancer but a high priced call girl when I met her.”

His face flushed a bright crimson as he shot me an apologetic look. “I didn’t know that part ‘til a’ter we married. One of the last fights we had, she screamed it at me.” He stopped for a moment, looking off, swallowing hard, fighting for control. “Called me a fat ol’clod hopper. Said she couldn’t stand the sight of me.” He mopped the sweat off his brow. “’Bout the same time, the drug thing happened.” He gazed beseechingly at Kirk, who stood pale as death. “I really did try to kick the habit. My – the things I did in church was – well, real. Thing was, I got scattered when I run up on that drug deal thing in the bathroom. I panicked. It was just – too much happened too fast. I kindly – you know, tricked you into agreeing to my taking off.” He gave a humorless huff of a laugh. “Truth was, I was glad to fly the coop.” He blinked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head as if to clear it.

Kirk reached out. “Moose, I can’t begin to tell – ”

“No,” Moose overrode Kirk’s apology. “It was me who done wrong. Me. Kirk, you was my best friend and I run off into the sunset, disappeared, leaving you that letter begging you to take care of Roxie.” His pain-filled eyes misted. “Kirk, I throwed you to the wolves.”

His gaze swung to me. “You, too, Neecy.” He bit his lip to stifle a sob. “God knows I’d’a killed myself before I’d’a hurt either one of you. I’m so sorry.”

“Look,” Kirk took Moose by the shoulders and gazed steadily at him, tears shimmering along his lids. “Let’s make a fresh start, friend. We’ve all made mistakes. Failed each other. And that’s bad. But the real tragedy would be that we don’t learn from it, don’t glean some wisdom. Please, Moose, accept my apology for all the hurts I’ve inflicted on you?”

Moose peered at Kirk as tears big as pearls slid off his round face. “You got it. An’ I want you to forgive me for being such a butt – you and Neecy both?”

We three hugged and wept for long moments before giggles erupted from Toby’s little girls. They’d gone to the car and now scampered back to the gravesite, each carrying a bunch of multi-colored balloons.

Michelle came to me first, reaching up her free arm to embrace me, to stem my tears. I squatted to hug her and got knocked flat on my fanny when Tiffany and toddler Kennedy ambushed me for equal opportunity. We dissolved into giggles and hugs and kisses until breathless.

“Mimi,” Tiffany piped, “Aunt Krissie loved bubblegum and Snickers. And she loved babies.”

“Aun’ Kwissie,” little Kennedy rejoined solemnly, “Her wi’ Jesus.”

“And – and she had blue eyes,” Michelle gushed proudly, “just like me!”

I narrowed my red, swollen eyes on their exuberant little faces, so like seven-year-old Toby’s all those years ago. “She had a small turned up nose like yours, too,” I said, gently tweaking hers, drawing fresh giggles.

“Uh huh.” Tiffany’s head bobbed in agreement. “An – and Daddy said Aunt Krissie always – ”

I listened, astonished, as they related, with amazing familiarity, anecdote after anecdote of Toby’s antics with his sister “Aunt Krissie,” whom, through their daddy’s stories, they knew in an intimate way that moved me to fresh tears.

I swiped them away, not wanting to thwart my granddaughters’ spontaneity. I felt Heather’s arms slide around me from behind after she plopped down on the ground to join us.

“Y’know what, Mama?” she asked in a lilting, childhood carryover voice. “I’ve written at least fifty poems to Krissie. I do them when I miss her the worst. And I’ve bought her a little token gift every birthday...things I can always use later, but initially, I do it for her.”

“Can you quote one?” I whispered, too choked to speak. “A poem.” How many I’d written to her through the years.

“Mmm – let’s see...Oh, here’s one: “If I could ask you one question, Krissie, just what would it be? I’d ask you why you died that day – why did you have to leave me! Why, why, why? I’d cry, Do I miss you until I could scream? Why can’t I wake up one day and find it was all a bad dream?”

Heather peered into my face and narrowed her gaze at my fresh tears. “Was it that bad, Mama?” she asked, a twinkle beginning in her eyes. She shrugged. “Heck, I told you I couldn’t write worth beans.”

I turned to hug her. “It’s just so – moving.”

Over her shoulder, I spotted Toby, tall and manly and blondely handsome. He grinned at me and I saw that little boy of long ago, the night after proudly showing me his surprise pond-tribute. I’d sat with him on his bed as he tugged off his socks, readying for bed.

“I had to do something, Mama.” He’d looked up at me and I saw the grief in the blue pools. I saw the grubby, callused little hands and thought of all the dirt they’d shoveled and the buckets of water they’d toted.

“Do you think she knows, Mama?” he asked that night.

“Yes, Toby. I’m sure she does.”

Squeals of delight snapped me back to the present as little fingers released a bouquet of balloons. “Happy Birthday, Aunt Krissie!” the girls yelled in unison. Toby, Heather and Dawn joined in the clapping and whooping, a balloon-ritual, I’ve learned, that follows such party festivities.

Their grief – my offsprings’ – is not tearful like mine and Kirk’s. But it is profound.

They manifest theirs through celebrating Krissie.

And today, after more than twenty years, Krissie still knows.

I watched the colorful bouquet scatter and rise...rise...higher... higher....

Toby’s and Heather’s gift goes on.

In their hearts, she lives.

“It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?” I turned to watch the wind ruffle Kirk’s near-white hair, adoring every inch of his slightly sagging features. Time has not been too unkind to him. He’s still as good-looking to me as he was nearly forty years ago.

“It was,” he agreed, giving me that slow smile that still shoots a thrill out my fingers and toes. “It was hard – but I’m glad we did it.”

He reached and took my hand. “Janeece,” he paused and cleared his throat.

My breath hitched at the tone in his voice, the get ready for an important announcement one. I leaned toward him, keening for what was to come.

“Gene asked me to consider assuming an assistant-pastoral position in his church.”

I stared at him, my mouth dropping open. Déjà vu.

Full circle.

“What do you think?” he asked uncertainly.

“It’s been a long time,” I muttered, emotions churning, flapping, yeowling.

He gave a long ragged sigh. “Too long.” Then after long moments, he added, “but I won’t do it if you’d rather I not.”

In that heartbeat, I knew the depth of Kirk Crenshaw’s love for me. I’d seen the lost, tormented look on his face through the years since he’d vacated the pulpit. I’d known – felt his desolation, his remorse in the wee dark hours. Now, a door opened up, casting sunshine over his world again.

And he’d give it up for me.

“I say go for it.” Heck! Why not? What could happen that hadn’t already happened?

I rolled my gaze upward. Oh, Lord – pretend I didn’t ask that.

He crooked his neck and slanted me a dubious look. “Really?”

“Really.” I gave him the most blazing, dazzling smile in me. And in that heartbeat of time, I let it go. All the hurts and disappointment, all the betrayals. I simply – turned loose. Like those released helium-filled balloons tied together, it disappeared into infinity. As far as the East from the West. And I felt the incomparable buoyancy and freedom that comes with forgiveness.

To forgive is – truly – divine.

Slowly, his lips began to curve up at the corners and his eyes shimmered with joy and peace and love – with gratitude.

“I love you, Neecy.”

“I love you, too,” I said, then burst into laughter. “Know what Toby said to me at the cemetery today – after everything was over?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘thanks Mama, for you and Daddy holding our home together for us. And you, Mom – you kept the homefires burning. I’ve seen how JoEllen suffered through her parents’ divorce andI – I really appreciate my parents staying together.” I looked at Kirk. “That’s what he said. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m glad, too.”

He smiled at me, his eyes moist, his voice husky, “There was never a moment I could have let you go. Never, Neecy.”

I sighed and laid my head on his shoulder. Was it true? God only knows. What I do know is that nothing or nobody was able to destroy our love.

And after all, that’s the important thing.