Ruthie
JOE DIED ON A SUNDAY MORNING. HE SMILED AT EACH OF us before softly
slipping into sleep and then into death. A quiet death for a quiet man. A man who had spent most of his life alone was surrounded by love when it was his time. Leah cried for him, held his hand and kissed it. Mae and I sat back, the way strong women do, and let him go. Ben stood at the door, as if ready to escort his ghost across the threshold. Mom refused to watch and cried softly from her chair in the living room as she watched the finches swoop in for food.
At his request, Joe was cremated. As he wished, we buried half of his ashes in Nova Scotia beside Charlie. Joe wanted the other half buried in Maine. Ten days and a funeral service later, with Leah in the front beside me, I pulled out of the driveway and headed back to the berry fields, the remaining ashes fastened in the back seat.
The small cabin looked the same as the last time I’d been there, the paint glistening in the soft evening light. Leah traced the stems of the flowers, the edges of the clouds and the crests of the blue waves with her fingers, admiring the work of her father.
Beside the steps that Joe built, we buried his ashes. As I stood hand in hand with my niece, who looked a little like me, I began to let go of my ghosts.
