The Last Goodbye

By Harry Watts

The old man carefully guided the car to a stop alongside a well-worn gravel road that circled a small cemetery behind a modest country church. It was late afternoon, and the fading light was almost gone. He sighed, gazing at the now familiar arrangement of headstones that punctuated the landscape. In the dimming light, he made out a young couple crossing the road, heading toward a car parked a short distance away. The man was holding the woman close against him, and she appeared to be crying. “No one laughs in a cemetery,” he thought, and looked away.

Slowly, he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached to open the door. He stopped, his hand resting on the handle. A gust of wind stirred the fallen leaves that littered the ground, and memories of other autumn days swirled through his mind like the leaves stirred by the wind.

She loved this time of year when the summer heat gave way to autumn chill and the winter cold was still weeks away. They often donned sweaters and took twilight walks, enjoying the vibrant fall foliage and the comforting smell of wood burning in neighborhood fireplaces. He remembered how the evening breeze always reddened her cheeks, and he could almost feel her snuggling close against him again.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and he could not bear the thought of being without her. She blossomed during the holidays, and watching her prepare the family’s Thanksgiving meal had always been a joy. He closed his eyes, hearing again the comforting sound of her singing softly and talking to herself as she worked. He had never quite mastered the culinary skill of carving a turkey, and the mangled carcass resulting from his effort always made her laugh. How he missed that laugh.

After Thanksgiving, the two of them would decorate a large Christmas tree that had become like a cherished family member over the years. She would play her favorite carols on an old CD player and carefully select each treasured ornament for placement on the tree. She always got a little teary-eyed when she found the adornments their children had made. She handled those with special care, hanging them gently in their sacred spots.

Other treasured decorations would be placed around the house, while he hung strings of brightly colored lights around the front porch. On Christmas Eve, the family always gathered around the tree to exchange gifts. She basked in the glow of being surrounded by those she loved most.

She was diagnosed in June. Radiation and chemotherapy quickly followed, but the invading cells could not be stopped. She was discharged from the treatment center and sent home in time to celebrate their last holiday season together. She was terribly weak, but with his help, she managed to prepare the Thanksgiving meal. Somehow, they all made it through dinner, but he could see how exhausted she was. After helping her to bed, he cleaned the kitchen and carefully stored the leftovers.

She spent the next few weeks saying goodbye to friends. He marveled at her strength and courage. Welcoming visitors seemed to give her a measure of peace. Many of them were from the church she had faithfully attended, but others were strangers to him—yet not to her. He never realized how many lives she had touched. Finally, she was too weak to have visitors, so she settled for email and texts.

The family gathered on Christmas Eve for the last time, departing in tears when she had to retire to her bed. The two of them spent that night—their last together—nestled under her favorite quilt, looking at scrapbooks and reminiscing about their life. She finally fell asleep in his arms, and he held her all night, listening to her breathing until it finally stopped. He knew she was gone, but he could not let her go until the morning light slipped into the room, allowing him to pretend to wake up with her one last time.

At last, he released the door handle and reached over to open the glove box. Inside, he found the gun he had bought years ago. She did not like having a gun in the house, and he had promised to get rid of it, but he never did. He held it in his hand—one of the few secrets he had ever kept from her. He had stored it in his car, convincing himself that he wasn’t really lying to her. The metal felt cold in his hand. He checked the magazine. It was loaded. He intended to say goodbye to her and finally end his pain.

He placed the gun on the seat and opened the door. A light rain began to fall as he made his way up the path to her grave. He knew she would not approve of what he was about to do, but his mind was made up. He knelt beside her headstone, and with tears mixing with the raindrops, he expressed his love and asked her to forgive him.

The rain soaked his overcoat. Slowly, he got to his feet and traced her name chiseled into the granite marker with his fingers. He lingered, lost in thought. After a while, he left her for what he thought would be the last time and slowly made his way back to the car.

The gun was still on the seat where he had left it—”waiting patiently for him,” he thought. He looked around and saw no one else in the cemetery. He assumed he was alone. “Might as well do it here,” he said aloud, reaching for the weapon. The rain had intensified, and he could barely see out of the windows. He wanted one last look around, but it was just as well. He knew someone would surely find him later tonight or tomorrow after the storm had passed. He checked to make sure the envelope with his farewell letter was still nearby. Everything was ready. It was time.

He cocked the pistol and took a deep breath. Suddenly, he heard what sounded like tapping on the window next to him. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the interruption, but the tapping grew louder, and then he heard a woman’s voice outside his door. The voice persisted, and he reluctantly lowered the window.

Rain pelted his face, making it hard to see, but sure enough, there stood a woman about his age, shivering in the downpour. Quickly, he raised the window and grabbed an umbrella from under the seat. He hurried out of the car, and together they moved around to the passenger door, where he helped her inside.

He returned to the driver’s seat and quickly turned on the heater. After a few minutes, she began to warm up and removed a beautiful silk scarf that covered her head. “Hello,” she said. “Thank you so much. I wasn’t sure you heard me.” “What are you doing out here in this rain? I didn’t see your car,” he replied. She looked at him for a moment and smiled before answering. “Oh, I live nearby. I don’t need a car to come here. By the way, my name is Mary.” “Hello, Mary,” he said. “I’m Walter. Are you warming up?” “Yes, quite nicely, I think.” At that moment, she appeared to notice the gun for the first time.

She looked intently at him and, with a mischievous chuckle, exclaimed, “My goodness, Walter, if you came here to shoot someone, I believe everyone is already dead.” He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No, nothing like that,” he replied, grabbing the pistol and returning it to the glove box. “Well, thank goodness,” she said, smiling again.

He looked at her more closely now. She was an attractive woman with graying hair and just a hint of smile lines around her deep blue eyes. Her skin was smooth, and her teeth were strikingly white. She wore no jewelry and no makeup that he could see. She was dressed in pants and athletic shoes—”a walker or jogger,” he guessed. Her coat was nylon, covering a sweater of some kind. Altogether, a very pleasing woman.

She noticed him staring and turned to meet his gaze. “I’ve seen you here before,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “My wife,” he replied, looking away. “We were married for… a long time.” She was quiet, but her gaze remained steady, almost appraising.

He stopped talking and sat, lost in thought, until Mary spoke again. “Do you believe in God?” she asked. He was taken aback and did not respond right away. Looking at her again, he saw that she was serious. There was something different about her—something he could not quite define. When their eyes met, he suddenly felt a sense of… something. He couldn’t name it, but it put him slightly off balance.

The rain continued to pour, and he thought, “Well, we’re not going anywhere, so we may as well make the best of it.” After an awkward silence, he answered, “No one has ever asked me that before. My wife was a believer,” he mused. “I went to church with her, went to Sunday school, made occasional donations. I checked all the boxes, but I don’t think I ever truly gave God much thought. As for heaven, life after death, all that… I guess I don’t know. People say they’ve had experiences after a heart attack or an accident—visions of heaven—but psychologists claim it’s just the brain shutting down, or oxygen deprivation, or some such explanation.” He paused. “I think I’d need some evidence—some proof that God exists and heaven is real. I haven’t seen any yet. I would like to believe that I’d see my wife again in an afterlife, but I can’t honestly say that I do.”

He looked at her with concern. “I hope I haven’t offended you. I certainly didn’t intend to—”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted. “I appreciate your honesty.” She reached out and touched his arm. “I can see you loved her very much.” At that, a wave of sadness swept over him, and he began to weep. The dam broke, and a river of grief surged through the cracks.

He buried his face in his hands, the tears coming unashamedly. For a time, he was consumed by his loss. Mary said nothing, but kept her hand on his sleeve, her gaze soft and understanding.

He regained his composure and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking the tissue she offered. “I didn’t know I would do that. I don’t even know you.”

“But I know you,” she whispered. “Quite well, in fact.”

He raised his head to look at her. “I was here the day you laid your wife to rest and each day since, when you’ve faithfully visited her,” she continued. “I’ve seen your pain, and I wanted to reach out to you, but the time wasn’t right until now.” He did not understand. “What do you mean? I don’t remember seeing you, but I wasn’t paying much attention.”

He drew back. “What do you want? Who are you?” The rain came down harder, the drumming on the car roof oddly comforting. He searched his memory. Whenever he came here, he made sure he was alone, arriving late in the day, at dusk. He could not recall ever seeing her.

She saw his confusion and smiled patiently. “You couldn’t see me,” she said. “I stayed out of sight.” He relaxed slightly. She didn’t seem like a threat, but he couldn’t figure out where she could have hidden. “You said you live nearby, but I’ve never seen you before. I know most of the people around here,” he said.

She listened quietly, not responding. He pressed on. “What did you mean, the time wasn’t right until now?” “You didn’t need me until now,” she answered. “I was waiting to see if you would recover, but clearly, you haven’t.” She nodded toward the glove compartment and the gun inside.

He thought he might cry again, but he held back the tears. “I just want the pain to stop,” he said. She waited before responding, and then she spoke in a quiet, gentle voice that seemed to penetrate his heart.

“Your wife is well and happy. She wants you to know that she will always love you and treasure the life you shared. She can’t come back to you, not in the way you want, but she is still with you. If you try, you will sense her presence. She would like that very much.”

“How do you know anything about my wife?” he asked, bewildered. Mary did not answer immediately. Instead, she continued to look at him with compassion. “I have something to share with you,” she said softly. He turned toward her, his gaze fixed on her eyes. They were a shade of blue he had never seen before, and he felt irresistibly drawn into their depth. He realized he was staring, but he couldn’t look away.

After a moment, she spoke again. “Do you remember your first Christmas together? The tiny house where the tree filled up the entire living room? And the crystal angel that you couldn’t afford, but bought anyway because you couldn’t say no to her?”

Walter stared at her in stunned silence. He could see it all so clearly. The tiny house, the oversized Christmas tree, the crystal angel she had fallen in love with. He had put up a token resistance, but eventually gave in, and they bought it. That angel had become their most cherished decoration, a symbol of their first Christmas together, and a reminder of their love.

“How do you know about that?” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Mary smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “I know because she wanted me to remind you. She wanted you to remember that love. She wanted you to know that even though she is no longer here physically, her love is still with you. It always will be.”

Walter’s tears returned, but this time they were different. They were not tears of despair, but of longing, mixed with a strange kind of hope. He felt the weight on his heart begin to lift, just a little.

“I don’t know how to go on without her,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep living.”

Mary reached over and took his hand. “One day at a time, Walter. You keep living one day at a time. She wouldn’t want you to give up. She would want you to live, to find joy again, even if it takes time. She is with you, cheering you on, every step of the way.”

Walter looked at Mary, truly seeing her for the first time. There was something almost ethereal about her, as though she were not entirely of this world. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, if she was real, or if she was some kind of angel sent to help him in his darkest moment.

“Who are you, really?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

Mary smiled again, her blue eyes twinkling. “Let’s just say I’m a friend,” she replied. “A friend who was sent to remind you that love never truly dies, and that God is closer than you think.”

Walter nodded, a sense of peace washing over him. He knew, deep down, that Mary was right. He didn’t fully understand what had just happened, but he felt something shift inside him. The unbearable weight of his grief was not gone, but it was lighter, and for the first time since his wife had passed, he felt as though maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to keep living.

Mary opened the car door, and Walter started to protest, “Wait, where are you going? Let me at least give you a ride.”

Mary shook her head, her smile never fading. “No need, Walter. I’ll be just fine. Remember what I said. One day at a time. And remember, she is always with you.”

Walter watched as Mary stepped out into the rain. He blinked, and for a moment, it seemed as though she had simply vanished. He opened his door and looked around, but there was no sign of her anywhere. The rain poured down, the cemetery was empty, and Walter was alone.

He sat back in the driver’s seat, his heart pounding, and looked over at the glove box where the gun lay hidden. Slowly, deliberately, he reached over and locked it. He would not need it tonight.

Instead, he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life. He glanced at his wife’s headstone one last time, and whispered, “I love you. I’ll keep going, for you.”

With that, Walter pulled away from the cemetery, the rain pounding on the windshield, the road ahead uncertain but no longer hopeless. He had been given a gift—a reminder of love, a reminder of hope, and perhaps, just perhaps, a glimpse of something greater.

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