I told you my only regret was that I didn’t tell you I loved you sooner, but am grateful for the time we did have together. I had the privilege of holding you as you took your last breath and watched the angels take you to the everlasting. Your soul lifted above us while my tears tried to keep you earthbound. You were once a wispy, pale dream in my life and then became my vivid reality. My heart stretched tight as I stared at the soft curves of your tranquil face. I thought that one small tear of its tautness would rip it to pieces. I could have sworn there were many of these deficiencies – these bleeding nicks - yet it did not split apart. Instead, they spread in multitude, millimeter by millimeter in agonizing torture. Raw and wrecked, I kissed your hand and every inch of your beautiful face. I was not sorry my tears fell on your angelic skin and saturated your silken hair.
I chose your favorite pink chiffon dress and your stupid four inch platform heels as your final outfit. Secretly, it was my favorite dress too. Your engagement ring sparkled between your folded fingers. Mine seemed muted, along with your last gift, the silver bracelet. Both weighed heavy on my limbs. My entire body felt laden down.
So many people came from New York to say goodbye to you. Maracella was a mess and clung to Jace, your fake boyfriend for a time. I was surprised to see him, but in an odd, commiserative way, I was glad he came.
Daddy buried you on that hill we used to stargaze on. I can see you from my bedroom window and keep you close.
I still have your pearl and crystal-embellished wedding dress, neatly folded in a garment bag stored in a beautiful white box along with mine. You were right, we would have looked stunning standing side by side, hand in hand. Your pictures of our time together torture me in our New York apartment, but I can't bring myself to put them away. In the fall, I went back to school, but everywhere I went, you were there. No one disturbed me while I broke down on street corners, or cried myself to sleep in your room, clinging to your pillow. No one asked me why I didn’t attend class for days on end. I was back because that’s what I knew you would have wanted from me, to be strong, though every instrument felt foreign to my touch and notes on sheet music looked like a Rorschach test. My muse was gone. Going through the motions became a bad habit until they just blended and became my life, immersed with sighs and gasping breaths. Our birthdays rolled by, and I could barely stand. There were days when I wished the cancer would yank me out of remission. I could have easily endured the pain to be with you again. Mom convinced me to seek therapy, so to avoid another argument or see the sadness in her eyes, I did. I also attended Grief Meetings, but I just sat and listened to everyone else for the first few times I went. Other people's grief seemed as insidious and soul-decaying as mine, so I kept going. Their stories of loss kept me company, filling the skeleton of the life I walked through.
After what would have been our one year wedding anniversary, I woke from a pitiful red wine-induced drunkenness and thought how disappointed you’d be in my wallowing. That day, I chose to live—actually live—so that I could be what you always knew I could be. To treasure my life that I’d been lucky enough to share with you, even though it was too short. It would have to be enough, and I knew I was dishonoring our love by being a shell.
I talked to my professors and agreed to take classes during the summer to make up for the time I had missed. They were very kind, but it cut deep to see the pity in their eyes. I almost didn't go. Your voice yelling at me echoed as I pushed myself out of bed every morning. Laughter actually came back to me late summer when I found the flyer flapping around the fountain. It caught my eye as it danced under our tree. I saw that as a sign from you to get my ass back in gear. So, just like you wanted me to, I auditioned for the Symposium. You would have been jumping for joy when I got the call from Professor Nixon saying I was going to be first string. I missed you so much I wasn’t sure if I could get through it, but I did it for you so that everyone could know how much I loved you.
It’s taken me a little over two years, but I am strong enough to be here at the Solstice Symposium. Tonight, every note I play is for you, my Desi, my love. The finale is my solo. With gentle fingertips, I hold the tortoiseshell frog of my bow, poised to pass over my cello strings. I settle my mind with rhythmic breaths and begin. Your song fills the park, and all fall silent with the haunting melody winding through the blades of grass and the new growth of leaves on the maples. Mom and Dad are crying. They know your song, and now everyone will too.
The time signature is a tempo to my own heartbeat. Every stem, flag, and clef honors you in adoration. Every second is dense and deeply swollen with love. The melody lifts messages from my heart up to you. Squeezing my knees tighter around my cello as if to hug you, the notes caress my message. Time stands still in this moment. Every universal soul is frozen, listening to my serenade to you. The horsehairs of my bow pass over my cello strings slowly as I play the last whole, glutinous note, absorbing the tremors on the fingerboard. With my eyes closed, I want to submerse myself in the vibration of the wood and through it, all that it says. My face is warm with the tears that have been falling since the first rise. The stampeding roar of the crowd is what makes me open my eyes, pulling me from my reverie. Through my soaked lashes, the audience is a blur until I blink a few tears free and see they are all on their feet.
My hand is to my heart as I take my bow. I stand tall, fingers to my lips, and blow a kiss to you sitting amongst the stars, watching me. You are on your feet applauding and screaming my name, doing your stupid “Whoo-hoo.” I can feel it, and it makes me laugh. When I sit, I see Wendy watching me. I offer a tight, exhausted smile that is expressed more in my eyes. She blushes and moves her hair over her shoulder, delivering a shy smile before looking away. I am jarred by its familiarity, but a sliver of warmth stirs in me. A few months ago, I didn’t celebrate the second anniversary of our ‘would be’ wedding day in a drunken stupor.
Wendy has become a good friend and instead, she dragged me out for a quiet dinner in a little bistro around the corner. She didn’t push, despite my mute mood, and was just there to keep me company. Her eyes tonight tell me something I haven’t seen in a long time.
It reminds me of my last season with you, and this time, it doesn’t hurt as much.
My deepest gratitude goes to every reader that picked up this little book and took a chance on an unknown author. Without risk, there is no reward.
I also want to thank you for your Free2Luv™ support! By purchasing this book, a portion will be donated to this rockin’ organization. Their mission is to support individuals globally to freely express themselves, spread kindness, stand up to bullying, and support equal rights for all. For more information or to take the pledge, go to www.Free2Luv.org.
On a more personal note, thank you to my super sexy and patient husband. Thank you for making me laugh every day. Thank you for handing me a box of tissue so I wouldn’t destroy another laptop. Thank you for taking care of the bunny-chicken while I typed my little butt off. But most of all, thank you for believing in me. I love you! Without you, this story may not have ever seen the light of day. Y’all should be thanking him too because there were times where I could not find words to express my thoughts during edits and revisions. For better or worse, he understands my language and was able to guide me to the exact destination.
I’d also like to thank my daughter even though she won’t understand a word I say. Thanks kiddo for entertaining yourself with the music I put on for you to dance to, the snacks I gave you so you would stop going into the cupboards grazing between meals, and for turning on the ceiling fans that didn’t need to be turned on, just so I could finish this story.
Massive hugs in multiples go to my support network of amazing women! To my fantastic My Last Season With You beta readers, Tricia Luzzi, Kate Mary, Dena Ogden, WannaBeMrsGranz, and GeminiKQ – YOU GUYS ROCK MY WORLD! Shout-outs to the rest of the Ferro Posse - Sary, ALadyMaleficent, and Stacey. Thanks for sticking with me through my breakdowns and crazy rants about My Last Sea
son With You. You guys and Michigan Chivette are the best cheerleaders a gal can have! I want to lovingly squish the crud out of each and every one of you!
Thank you to both my editors, Lawren Floyd and Emily Teng (even though you probably wanted to kill me at times). I appreciate your patience and flexibility working my project. Em – love our comments repartee. Can’t wait to do it again. Hope I can afford you! Also, I take full responsibility if there are any typos, dialogue errors, grammatical butchery, or scenes that still make you scratch your head. Some scenes I just had to do it my way.
To Ashley for my cover art – I am grateful beyond measure for your help to salvage my cover!
Special warm fuzzies to authors that don’t know it, but have been my inspiration from the start. They are the reason I went indie. These authors are fierce and tell their story the way they want to regardless of the haters and naysayers. When they get knocked down, they get right back up and put out another great read. To Ella Fox, H.M. Ward, Katy Evans, Emma Chase, and Rachel Van Dyken; thank you for being you and doing what you do. I appreciate the guidance by your exampled actions and posts that encourage and educate the indie world. Thanks for the tears and laughter through words! You ladies squeeze my heart!
And I saved my absolute favorite acknowledgement for last. I can’t even fathom words to relay how much I appreciate Marian Tee. Your openness and willingness to risk, blows me away! You are not only a ridiculously talented storyteller, but a woman of remarkable resilience, integrity, and courage. Your wisdom and influence have helped me grow in ways I would have never imagined. You are a blessing and an essential part of my writing process (when I’m stuck, you are my “go-to” read to renew my muse). Even though I am just an uber fangirl, thank you for never treating me as such, I adore and heart you tons!
SVC Ricketts is a Contemporary Romance author and professional smart alec (self-professed). Her work has been recognized by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association and was selected as a finalist for the 2013 PNWA Literary Competition in the Romance category.
Raised between Southern California and Hawaii, she moved to the Pacific Northwest in 1993. Although she loves the Seattle area, her heart belongs to the Islands - it always will. When she’s not in what she loving calls “book-mode,” she multitasks her life between her hilarious special needs adult daughter, super smexy husband of 11 years, two dogs, and sweating out her stress in a hot yoga studio. She’s also an avid Twitter (@SVC_Ricketts) and Facebook (SVC Ricketts) addict (again, self-professed). If you want to check out her other ramblings, you can visit her at www.SmexyIndieAuthor.com.
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