When the ceremony was over, we walked back to our limo. Marc told me it would be okay about fifty times.
“We’ll be fine. You and me, kid. We’ll be fine.” Ha, what a lie that was.
Gram had the idea to take us back to the grave on the one-month anniversary. She felt that had been enough time for what had happened to sink in. It wasn’t, and it never would be. We agreed to go to keep her happy. On the Internet, she had read how lots of children of deceased parents feel better when they write a letter to the loved one, attach it to a balloon, and then let it go at the grave. I knew there was no way this was going to make me feel better. She wasn’t going to get it. It’s not like there was some magic wind carrying these balloons and these love letters to Heaven. It was stupid. A stupid idea. But could I tell that to my grandmother? Never.
Dear Mom,
This is my letter to you in Heaven. How you’re going to get this, I don’t know. Why I’m even bothering to write this, I don’t know. I guess because it makes Gram feel better. I wonder what Marc is writing in his letter. Even though we knew it was coming, I still don’t understand. You’re so beautiful. I’m sure you still are in Heaven. You were so… young. Too young. I can’t even bear to mention all the things that you’re going to miss out seeing me do, so I won’t. I can’t. I wish people didn’t know you died. They look at me different. They pity me. They think I’m a freak. I feel like I have this new name attached to me. Like people are saying, “Who’s that?” “Oh that’s Marissa, her mom died.” I hate it. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I know you didn’t cause yourself to get cancer. I hate cancer. I hate every abusive cancerous cell that infected your body! I’m crying now. Can you see me? Oh, Mom. You were the best mom ever. I love you so much. I miss you like crazy. I wish I could talk to you so bad. I sprayed some of your perfume on my pillow. I love you. Please stay close to me, okay? I hope you get this letter. With everything in my heart, I hope you do. I love you.
Your loving daughter,
Marissa
I think I cried for the next hour. That’s when Gram came to tell me to get my coat on and that it was time to go. It was early December, and it was freezing. There hadn’t been any snow yet, but it felt like it in the air. The sky was gray, and that’s how I felt. Gray. At the grave, Gram handed me some tape and a red heart-shaped balloon, and she handed another balloon to Marc.
“Where’s your letter?” I asked him.
He took out a black sharpie and wrote on the balloon. I love you Mom. To me, it seemed like kind of a cheap move. I had worked hard on my letter, and he just wrote “I love you” on the balloon. Humph. Well, I knew whose balloon Mom was going to like better. We stood at the grave for what seemed like an hour — it was probably five minutes — while Gram read one of Mom’s favorite poems out loud, Stay Gold by Robert Frost. My bottom lip was quivering, and I didn’t wipe away the tears as they streaked down my face.
“Okay Marc, why don’t you go ahead?” Gram said. Marc’s eyes were glassy, and he cleared his throat before he spoke.
“This one’s for you, Mom.” He let his balloon go. It quickly traveled straight upward. My balloon was clutched in my hand.
“Whenever you’re ready, Marissa,” Gram said as she rubbed my shoulder.
Looking at the balloon, I wondered how it was going to make the long journey to Heaven. Somehow in my heart, I knew it would, though. I closed my eyes and kissed the balloon. My lips left a light pink lip gloss mark, and I let it go. It began a slow ascent, the letter giving it a bit of weight. That’s when the wind shifted, and my little balloon made its way into a tree.
“Noooooooo!” I shouted as I watched Marc run toward the tree. My brain was spinning. She won’t get it! She’ll never get it! She has GOT to get my letter! Oh Mom! The tree was big, and the balloon was dangerously close to the top. I thought there was no way Marc could get it. But I watched in awe as my brother scaled that tree like a monkey. He was relentless even as the smaller, weaker limbs were breaking under his feet. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could barely breathe. After what felt like hours, as my legs stayed cemented in the spot I was standing, Marc descended down the tree, with the balloon, intact, in his hand.
“Here, try again,” he said as he handed me the balloon. He was out of breath, and he had some scrapes on his face. I grabbed him and squeezed him tightly, my tears seeping through his favorite blue jacket. “All right, all right.” Gently, he pushed me off him. “Just do it right this time.” He playfully punched my arm.
A chuckle caught in my throat. Without saying a word, I let the balloon go. This time, it sailed high into the sky. I felt part of my heart soaring off with it, my heart on a string.
****
Back in class, the sound of the bell jolted me. Scanning the room, I saw all the other students gathering their books and beginning the
