#thelastofus

“Lord, I’m One…Lord, I’m Two,” a voice surfaces somewhere from behind, but it is shrouded from visibility in the dense meadow. 

“Lord, I’m Three...Lord I’m Four…” 

 “Lord, I'm five hundred miles from my home,” the melody continues just as Joel pauses to scan the field, and a bare foot bobs up from between the sea of green blades.

 “Five hundred miles—” 

He quickens his stride, weaving through the waist-high bluestems.

“Five hundred miles, Five hundred miles, Five hundred mi—” He interrupts mid-verse, parting the verdant wall to discover Inga outstretched beneath him. The strap of her cotton smock, sagging lazily from one shoulder. 

Blinking against the sun, the bridge of her freckle-dusted nose creases as she tries to make out his expression. 

“What?” She smiles, propping herself onto her elbows.

“And just what the hell are you doin’ all the way out here by yourself?” 

“You know…figured I could go for a stroll—”

“Without so much as a knife?” Joel interjects, the absence of gear dawning on him before the rest of her answer can follow. He shakes his head, gesturing blankly to the flattened grass, “—Inga, come on. You can’t be this reckless.”

“Of course not,” she perks. “I saw you make a detour off of the northwestern trail, so I figured I stood a fighting chance.” 

“And what fighting chance is that?” he huffs out in disbelief, “That I’d sweep in guns blazin’ to save you?”

 “Oh, come on. Don’t get all sour on me now, Joel—” Inga chuckles. “Think of what Peter, Paul and Mary would have to say.”

“Inga. You weren’t even born in the same decade as that release—”

“It sounds to me like you’ve proven the very point I was going to make,” she smirks with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes,“Only an old geezer like you could be lulled over—”

But Joel hurdles into the firing range—snaking his hands through the crowd of green blades until Inga is wrestled into his arms. He lets out a breathless laugh, taken by her sincere ear-to-ear grin. How easy it felt to hold her like this without doubts. 

Caught beneath the hem of her dress, he brushes his thumb along the rise of her thigh—and Inga stills, gazing up into his dark backlit lashes. The late-August heat wafts slowly overhead, amplifying the hummingbird thrum of every alive and real thing that bats beneath her skin. Then, after a steadier breath, he adjusts his touch a fraction and pulls back to just stare.

“Mia’s with the kid…” she mutters, eyeing him.“If that’s what you were wondering...”

“Wasn’t the first question that came to mind…” he yields, tugging her closer. “And exactly how long have you been out here playin' clicker-bait?” 

“Well, that’s kind of between me and Peter-Paul-Mary.”  

“Not polite for you to pull those folks into your private affairs—”

“Oh, so now you’re worried about being polite?”

He exhales through his nose, failing to steer towards higher ground. Except Inga doesn’t seem intent on letting him off easy anyhow.

“Fine...” She sighs theatrically, before softening her voice to a whisper, “Since you really oughta—”

But Joel knows better than to give her breathy nuisance a shot at stealing the last inch between their lips.

As he strode past the stables on his way back from the tool shed—a scurrying, small-bodied flash, suddenly zipped out of the corner of Joel’s eye, hauling him to a stop. Between the pile of hay stacked outside of the stables, and the ominous shadows lurking from within, the hiding spot felt all too obvious—mostly, for reasons having to do with age, than any tactical logic. And when Joel decides to brave another foot towards the heap, he watches as the tiny conspirator burrows deeper into the straw with a muffled giggle, disappearing into some great secret. His tangle of dark curls, unknowingly caught between the golden spindles—along with the book spine poking out from the base of the pile. 

He figured the crunch of the sun-baked dirt would be loud enough to alert Inga to his arrival, but even her mind seemed to be adrift—focused entirely on working the wide-toothed comb between the horse’s mane. He paused to watch the late afternoon breeze kick up the loose strands of hair in soft whispers, but after she'd felt him watching her quietly for long enough, she turned to acknowledge him.

Joel leaned his back against the barn’s exterior, folding his arms across his chest.

“Kid gave me a look…”

“Oh?” Inga slowed mid-brush. “And exactly what kind of look are we dealing with here?”

“Like I was interruptin’ some covert operation,” Joel pulled his brows together in thought. “Real conspiratorial...wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drawin’ up battle plans in broad daylight.”

She laughed shaking her head as she eased the strap buckle into place, and after another minute Joel sidled up beside her—tucking the stray flyaways back behind her ear with a reminiscing look. He glanced behind him once more as a precaution, before meeting her with a softer tone, “Somehow, I’ve never managed to ask you about the name…”

Parting the chestnut-colored mane into thirds, Inga blinked away at the gate as she answered, “Sol…it means sun in Latin.” But a hesitation hovered behind the words. As if describing the entirety of what his being meant, was too great of a task, even for her. “—But more than that,” she decides,“He is my light. Out of the darkness.”

Joel stood stunned, unsure of what to say. 

“Not because Noah’s love had died with him. In that…place. It seeped into Sol. Into all of us."

"Like the sun.” 

Inga nodded, reaching to brush a small spec of dirt from his cheek, keeping her gaze fixed on him as she rose to press an unhurried kiss up to his lips—collapsing twenty-one years of grief, into one sure breath. Into a woman who'd chosen him against every impossibility. At every juncture. After death. And even in their afterlife mess of a world.  

“—So that’s why Joel always looks at Mommy funny,” a small voice piped up from the tussled straw. 

Inga turned sharply in its direction as Sol’s head surfaced, grinning, ear to ear.

“A-ha!” she gasped diving into the heap and swooped his tiny frame into her arms. “And don’t you think you’re getting away with whatever scheme you were cooking!”

“Mommy!” Sol giggled uncontrollably in her arms, “I surrender!—I surrender!"

“Too late!” Inga nuzzled another kiss into the crook of his neck. “Should’ve picked a better hiding spot!”

Joel smiled watching the lifelines seep from both ends. How Sol’s dot-speckled nose scrunched in the same ways his mother’s did. An elasticity that sprung forth through those clumsy curls. Because even if it was just a flickered moment—the world had not robbed them of this one truth. Of something unrestricted by aftermath. From the battered seams of this earth. From sores and open-faced wounds that were perpetually caught between becoming and being split anew. Reaching through. If only, inch by fragile inch, out of a millennia of microcosms. Out of feeble half-truths, where all matter would eventually return to bone and soil. To dust. But how many of those years could exist suspended outside of those odds, was no longer important. So he crossed the distance to pull them both into reach. 

Because so long as he was here, the shape of this unconditional light could still be held between them.

Signed Dearly,