Word travels quickly through the small neighborhood about your arrival and marital status— or lack thereof. Welcoming introductions turn into unannounced check-ins and flowers. Uncomfortable small talk on your front porch is sprinkled throughout the following weeks, a hand on your shoulder accentuates their let us know if you need anything. Sympathetic casseroles finally dwindle allowing you to finally ease into this new season of your life. 

The hammock left by the previous owners becomes your sanctuary most evenings. Searching for the brightest star in the night’s sky, then asking Dave how he’s doing before reading aloud to him the words from your latest book. 

It's days later when you’ve read the final word that a small voice from over the fence manifests as a quirky teenage girl sitting at a table you’ve set up on your back patio. She has a million and one questions about the book and is filled with theories about what happens beyond its ending. The side gate is never regularly latched closed now, eagerly awaiting Ellie’s return. She navigates most of your late night conversations that follow, including personal stories and the history of her life. My grump of an old man is in construction. He’s single by the way— not by choice, but life happens. 

His voice is calloused the first time he makes his presence known to you. Goddamn it, Ellie! I told you to leave her alone! They exchange brittle words back and forth through the shared barrier, before you insist he join the two of you. The crunch of his boots on the ground stall when he towers over where you’re still seated. His hand engulfing yours, warm and gentle as he tries to determine where his gaze should fall— you, the ground, the smirking teenager sitting across from you. Joel. Joel Miller. Uh, Ellie n’ I live next door. Not sure how long she’s been botherin’ you, but I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again.

It’s weeks later when you run into Joel at the mailboxes. The clanking of keys and squeaky hinges fill the space between you before you’re both retreating back to your respective pathways. Your hands fidget and twist the bills and letters from your parents when you bravely initiate a conversation before he’s able to reach his front door. She’s the first person since moving here who wanted to talk to me about something other than the death of my husband. I don’t think I’ve laughed as much as I have with her in a long time. She’s welcome over here anytime. 

He reeks of nervousness as he stands on your doorstep the following evening. The ambered hue of his eyes absorb the warmth from the front porch light, adding a brightness to them that they seem to be commonly lacking. His words waver a bit as he begins to speak, starting and stopping, scrubbing his hand down his face before he attempts to start again. You offer him nothing but patience, sensing the mournful energy radiating off him— similar to the one you’ve been carrying. My wife and older daughter— they were both in an accident on their way to Sarah’s soccer game. I was pickin’ up Ellie from her counseling group for adopted kids. We were headin’ to the soccer field when I got the call. Some days are harder than others. And everyone wants to help, however that may be— lots of food as I’m sure you know. It doesn’t ever really get easier, but you learn to live with grief. Anyways, if you ever need anything or just want to talk— you know where I live.  

He accepts your impulsive invitation to join you for dinner, offering him the open seat across from you in the same spot as your timid first meeting. The crickets orchestrate the evening ambience as you share stories you’d tucked away, too painful to revisit until now. You find you laugh just as much, if not more, with Joel. Even among the tears shed, the conversation is filled with a hope and optimism that you longed for. 

You still feel his wholesome embrace long after you’ve called it a night to seek out much needed sleep. But much like the nights that ensued after Dave’s death, loneliness and the weight of your grief rear its head. 

The black ink glides over the surface of the paper. Line after line formulated a year’s worth of unsaid words that had been bottled up and blockaded by the rigid walls you’d built around them. Joel was right about the therapeutic effect of getting rid of the burdensome thoughts that come with loss, finding it’s hard to stop now that you’ve started. 

You convey the love that you still carry for Dave, something you’ll never willfully ignore or regret. It feels wrong but you touch on the hatred you feel towards his death; you hate him for leaving you, hate that you miss him, hate that some nights you forget the small details that you cherished about him. You tell him about Joel and the kindness he’s afforded you in a short time of knowing him and that there’s life beyond losing the love of your life. To look for the light even when shrouded by darkness. 

Pictures and trinkets find their way out of the cardboard confines Joel helped pull out from the guest room closet. The bare walls now filled with familiar faces and shelves adorn with colorful memories that you tried so hard to keep hidden. 

"That bad, huh?" Clem huffs out a soft laugh, pulling the coffee and ice cream concoction closer before taking a sip. "Long day. This is delicious, though. Thank you."

"Salted caramel java chip affogato. Secret menu item for my favorite customers," she smiles and gestures to Clementine's outfit, a step up from the scrubs she normally sees the other woman in. "Big plans tonight?"

"I had a date. Friend of my brother's. He got waylaid. It's fine," Clementine waves a hand dismissively. "Stopped next door and grabbed a bottle of wine, thought I'd pop in here and get something for dinner to go with, and celebrate at home on my couch in my pajamas."

Topaz looks up as the bells over the front door of the diner announce a new arrival and then she grins back at Clem.

"Flattered as I am to be even minutely included in your alternate birthday plans, I think I have a better idea for you and that bottle of wine."

"Selling alcohol now, T?" Robby asks as he reaches the counter, having only caught the tail end of her and Clementine's conversation.

"Ya know, I'm really struggling to get that liquor license approved. There's one guy on the city council that still has beef with Myrna. I can't imagine why," Topaz deadpans.

"Do I even want to know?" Robby laughs, placing a hand on the back of Clementine's chair and Topaz doesn't miss the way they both seem to relax just a fraction and lean into the other's orbit.

"Probably not. If you don't know, you can't be forced to testify," she grins. "What you should know however, if you don't already, is that it's my girl Clementine's birthday and it is absolutely criminal that—"

"Oh, no, Topaz," Clem shakes her head, swiveling her stool so she can look back and forth between the two of them. "Michael, really, no, please do not listen to her—

"She plans on going home and celebrating alone," Topaz continues, talking over Clem and reaching under the counter to grab Robby's take out order and sit it in front of him. "When you have more than enough here to share and I'll even throw in a couple slices of Hazel's lemoncello mascarpone cake for dessert."

"Robby, ignore her. I'm sure you have other plans and—"

"Clem," Robby interjects, smiling softly at her. "I would be honored to share my dinner and have the pleasure of your company. You like carbonara?"

"I do actually," Clementine says, smiling back at him. "That sounds wonderful."