I went to the Deseret Thrift store today, but you know that, because you did too.
I held the door so you could get through and I paused by a rack of clothes to wait for your wheelchair to come down the ramp.
I tried to focus on a row of housewares, but I couldn’t, because this was our favorite store. You and me. Together.
You left when I did, but you didn’t get into my van. The seat was much too high. I knew I should have bought something lower for you.
You faded when I paused to wonder why you had a wheelchair in Heaven.
Down the street, the strawberry field was green with mature plants. Five or six workers bent over them picking the fruit. The little wooden stand at the edge of the patch was open for business.
I had no cash in my purse, but the sound of my best friend’s voice was yelling in my head. “Buy the strawberries.”
That’s what she said when I drove her past this field a lifetime ago. She actually reprimanded me for daring to pass up fresh berries picked from a visible patch.
Today I kept on driving, but she was dancing and spinning there and wishing that I wouldn’t.
A few blocks east, I stopped for a light. You drew my eye to the fruit stand across the road. Bags of bright oranges dangled from the low roof. You urged me to get some, but I kept on going.
I bought some lunch and came home to eat it.
I made a phone call.
I turned on the t.v.
I turned off the t.v.
The house is silent.
Except for the light swish of my best friend’s sleeve as she spins in the strawberry patch.
Except for the crunch of your wheelchair tires on the sand in the fruit stand parking lot.
Those things sound like beautiful faraway music.
I’m going back to get some fruit and hear the notes more clearly.