But I was a broken man after she died. I was angry and boozing and losing myself little by little in the process. I stopped tilling and planting and singing because Clara was gone and I didn’t see the reason to keep it going. I hated the world and I didn’t want to go on. I thought about killing myself more than once, but then Dawson came along. It was good to have him around. Somehow he helped remind me that I still belonged in this world, that my work here wasn’t done. But then he got taken away, too. After that, I came up here and saw the place for the first time in years. It was out of season, but some of the flowers were still blooming, and though I don’t know why, when I sang our song tears came to my eyes. I cried for Dawson, I suppose, but I also cried for me. Mainly, though, I was crying for Clara.
That was when it started. Later that night, when I got home, I saw Clara through the kitchen window. Even though it was faint, I heard her humming our song. But she was hazy, not really there, and by the time I got inside she was gone. So I went back to the cottage and started to till again. Got things ready, so to speak, and I saw her again, this time on the porch. A few weeks later, after I scattered seeds, she started coming around regularly, maybe once a week, and I was able to get closer to her before she vanished. But then, when the flowers bloomed, I came out here and wandered among the flowers, and by the time I got home I could see and hear her plain as day. Just standing right there on the porch, waiting for me, as if wondering why it took me so long to figure things out. That’s the way it’s been ever since.
She’s part of the flowers, you see? Her ashes helped to make the flowers grow, and the more they grew, the more alive she became. And as long as I kept the flowers going, Clara could find a way to come back to me.
So that’s why you’re here, and that’s why I asked you to do this for me. This is our place, a tiny corner of the world where love can make anything possible. I think that the two of you, more than anyone else, will understand that.
But now it’s time for me to join her. It’s time for us to sing together. It’s my time and I have no regrets. I’m back with Clara again, and that’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be. Scatter my ashes to the wind and flowers, and don’t cry for me. Instead, I want you to smile for the both of us; smile with joy for me and my gal.
Tuck
Dawson leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, trying to imagine Tuck as he wrote the letter. It sounded nothing like the laconic, rough-hewn man who’d taken him in. This was a Tuck that Dawson had never met, a person Dawson had never known.
Amanda’s expression was tender as she refolded the letter, taking extra precaution not to tear it.
“I know the song he talks about,” she said after she had stowed the letter safely in her purse. “I heard him singing it once while he sat in the rocker. When I asked him about it, he didn’t really answer. Instead, he played it for me on the record player.”
“At the house?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking it was catchy, but Tuck had closed his eyes and he just seemed… lost in it. When it was over, he got up and put the record away, and at the time I didn’t know what to make of it. But now I understand.” She turned toward him. “He was calling to Clara.”
Dawson slowly rotated his wine glass. “Do you believe him? About seeing Clara?”
“I didn’t. Not really, anyway. But now I’m not so sure.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding them again of what they had come here to do. “I think it’s probably time,” Dawson said.
Amanda stood, brushing off her pants, and together they descended to the garden. The breeze was steady now, but the mist had grown even thicker. The crystalline morning was gone, replaced by afternoon weather that reflected the murky weight of the past.
After Dawson retrieved the box, they found the path that led to the center of the garden. Amanda’s hair rippled in the breeze, and he watched as she ran her fingers through it, trying to keep it under control. They reached the center of the garden and stopped.
Dawson was conscious of the weight of the box in his hands. “We should say something,” he murmured. At her nod, he went first, offering a tribute to the man who’d given him shelter and friendship. Amanda, in turn, thanked Tuck for being her confidant and told him that she’d come to care about him like a father. When they were finished, the wind picked up almost on cue, and Dawson lifted the lid.
The ashes took flight, swirling together over the flowers, and as she watched, Amanda couldn’t help thinking that Tuck was looking for Clara, calling out to her one last time.