Part 10 – After Grace
Spring turned to summer.
The clover thickened in the fields. The roses bloomed without apology. And the porch swing creaked each evening as Eleanor sat beneath the eaves, watching the world in its quiet unfolding.
Grace was gone.
But not absent.
Eleanor felt her in small things — the stillness of morning, the hush after rain, the echo of paws in places that should’ve been silent.
Sometimes she reached for the leash by the door.
Sometimes she sang.
Ruth passed quietly in late June.
The center called. Eleanor went to the service. Small chapel. Fewer than ten people.
She brought a single white lily and a note:
“I remember your lemon muffins.”
On the drive home, she didn’t cry.
She let the wind roll in through the open window and whispered Grace’s name like a prayer.
George came by the next Sunday.
Didn’t say much.
Just sat on the porch and handed Eleanor a faded photo — the last one taken of him and Lucky.
“I thought you’d want it.”
Eleanor framed it.
Put it beside her own.
The shelter called again in July.
There was another dog — older, almost blind, not likely to last the month.
“We’re not asking for adoption,” the woman said. “Just a presence.”
Eleanor said yes.
She always said yes now.
She called him “Hank.”
He couldn’t walk far. But he liked music.
So Eleanor played old records in the sunroom — Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, slow ballads with dusty voices.
Sometimes, she’d sing along, off-key.
Hank would bark once.
She called it applause.
The field behind the house became a place of ritual.
Every morning, she walked there.
No leash. No dog.
Just memory.
Sometimes she carried flowers.
Sometimes she carried nothing at all.
She spoke to Grace like she was still beside her.
And in some ways — she was.
The journal filled slowly.
A page at a time.
Little entries:
“George laughed today.”
“The new dog, Hank, snores louder than Harold ever did.”
“I didn’t feel lonely this morning. Just quiet.”
Autumn arrived.
The light changed.
Softer. Warmer. Like someone turning down the volume without turning off the song.
Eleanor sat by the window one evening, blanket over her legs, tea cooling in her hand.
And she smiled.
Not because she’d healed.
Not because she’d forgotten.
But because she’d remembered how to be.
To sit with sorrow.
To hold joy in the same hand.
To walk, even when it hurt.
She looked out toward the field.
The wind chime stirred once — just once.
And somewhere, deep in her chest, something whispered:
Grace.
