let herself into the house, I was on Psalm 50.
“Go on,” Sophie said, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking my father’s hand.
I finished with, “Whoso offereth praise glorifieth me: and to him that ordereth his conversation aright will I show the salvation of God.” I closed his old Bible with a thump.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“A boy. Five hours, two pushes, and six brothers thrilled with his arrival.”
I smiled. I didn’t see births like that very often in the maternity ward where I worked—that many siblings awaiting the baby’s arrival, the whole family celebrating together.
“Have you decided what you’ll do with the house?” Sophie asked.
I shrugged. I hadn’t decided anything. I didn’t want to sell it, rent it, or live in it. Nor did I want to sell the orchard. I wanted Dad in both the orchard and the house, alive. “I don’t know,” I said softly.
“How are things going with James?”
Sophie knew I had a habit of dumping men who became too serious. I thought I would feel differently with James because we’d known each other so many years, but now I wasn’t so sure. We started going out right after Dad was diagnosed last year, which might have been a reaction on my part to my fear of losing my father. I’d always found James attractive, even when I’d pretended to hate him during high school, but there was a part of me that was afraid to trust him, to trust any man besides Dad.
James and I didn’t talk much about our future. Sophie, the ladies at church, friends from work, and the people he went to school with all assumed we would get married. I knew James wouldn’t ask me until he was done with graduate school and had a job, though. He’d become hopelessly old-fashioned in that way.
Two months ago I wanted nothing more than to marry him and start a family. But lately I had no idea what I wanted.
An uneven breath from Dad caught both Sophie’s and my attention. He inhaled again. We waited. Finally he exhaled.
“Sweetie,” Sophie said as she stood. She reached for my hands and placed them on top of his, on top of his chest, on top of the quilt. “Sweetie,” she said again. “I think it’s time.”
“No.” I laced my hands in his, leaning over him. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready.
He inhaled again. We waited.
“Come quickly, Lord Jesus,” Sophie whispered.
“Breathe,” I countered. But he didn’t.
He had never been overly affectionate with me, nor I with him, but now I kissed his face, his cheek, his eyelids, his forehead.
“He’s gone,” Sophie said.
“I know.” I squeezed his hands.
“Death is so holy, just like birth.” Sophie smiled as tears spilled down her face.
I let go of his hands, hoping he was right and that he and Mama had just been reunited.
“God rest both your souls,” I said, but the words rang hollow. I turned away and wept.
TWO
Dad’s house was located just outside of Aurora, a small town in northern Oregon. Founded in 1856 as a Christian communal society, it consisted of period cabins, houses, and stately white meeting halls. The commune was made up of German and Swiss immigrants, but they disbanded when their leader died nearly thirty years later.
In comparison, the Mennonites were latecomers to Oregon, not arriving until 1889. What they did have in common with the Aurora Commune was that their roots, although a bit tangled, originated in Switzerland and Germany too.
That’s what I thought about as I drove through tiny Aurora on my way to the funeral home in the larger nearby town of Canby. I was trying to distract myself from my grief, but it didn’t work. As I passed by the barbershop where Dad got his hair cut, tears filled my eyes yet again, as they had all morning.
By the time I reached the funeral home, I had managed to compose myself. Almost on autopilot, I went inside and made the arrangements. Back out in the car when I was done, I sent a text to James, telling him that it was all finished and that I had scheduled the service for the day after next. He texted back to say he’d just completed his presentation and would head down in about an hour. I responded, asking him to wait until the next day. I needed time alone. I didn’t tell him I felt as if I were moving under icy water, as if my thoughts were drowning, as if my