The wind off the parking lot carried that particular winter-clean smell that only exists in the space between a hard frost and a slow thaw—cold air sharpened by distance, the sweetness of funeral flowers still sealed in their cellophane, and the faint warmth of brewed coffee drifting from the church foyer where volunteers in sensible shoes arranged cups on folding tables with the quiet efficiency of people who have done this too many times before. A small American flag stood near the guest book on a brass stand, its colors muted in the gray morning light, and beside it someone had placed a framed photograph of a man I once knew better than anyone alive and hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. I kept my gloves on.
Not because of the cold, though the February air in Chesapeake, Virginia had a bite to it that sank straight to the bone, but because my hands hadn’t stopped trembling since I’d read the obituary two days earlier in a coffee shop in Richmond, sitting alone at a corner table with a latte going cold while the words rearranged themselves in my mind like furniture being moved in a room I thought I’d locked for good. Thomas Andrew Hargrove. Beloved husband, father, entrepreneur, and philanthropist.
Passed peacefully at home surrounded by family. He was fifty-one years old. Fifty-one.
We had been married when he was twenty-six and I was twenty-four, and in the algebra of grief, my mind kept doing the math—how many years since the wedding, how many since the divorce, how many since the last time I heard his voice on the phone telling me he was sorry, that he wished things had been different, that he hoped I’d find someone who deserved me. I never did, as it turned out, though not for lack of trying. What I found instead was a career in nursing that kept my hands busy and my heart occupied, a small house in Richmond with a garden that bloomed whether or not I remembered to tend it, and a kind of solitary peace that I had learned to stop apologizing for.
I almost didn’t come. The obituary listed a memorial service at Grace Harbor Church in Chesapeake, and for two full days I argued with myself about whether showing up was an act of closure or masochism. Thomas and I had ended our marriage not with the dramatic combustion that makes for good stories but with the slow, exhausted surrender of two people who had loved each other deeply and discovered that love, by itself, was not enough to bridge the distance that ambition and timing and sheer bad luck had carved between them.
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