“Can I put Mr. Cuddles in there with Momma?”
“Are you sure?”
Nodding, she says, “Yes. I don’t want Momma to be in there alone. Mr. Cuddles can keep her company.”
“She would really love that.”
I bend over so Gemma can set Mr. Cuddles inside the casket. She does so carefully, situating him so he’s resting right by Molly’s head.
She sniffs again, wiping the back of her hand under her nose. “Now it looks like she’s sleeping with Mr. Cuddles.”
She’s right. It does look like Molly’s simply sleeping with the stuffed bear. What I wouldn’t give for that to be the case.
“Do you think Momma went to Heaven?”
“Yeah, baby,” I say hoarsely. “I think she’s up there right now looking down at us.”
Gray steps forward, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it, and I get a glimpse of a picture. I immediately know it’s of him and his mom. It’s a replica he drew of one of Molly’s favorite pictures of when Gray was a baby. She’s sitting in a rocking chair with baby Gray cradled in her arms. She’s not looking at the camera. Instead her head is facing down as she gazes lovingly at our son. Gray was about a month old when I snapped that picture.
He sets the picture on Molly’s chest, right above her hands, and then looks at her face. “I love you, Momma,” he says quietly. “I wish you were still here. I’ll never forget you.”
More tears prick the backs of my eyes. Before I can reach out and grip his shoulder in comfort, he steps closer. Instead, I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him the rest of the way to me.
We stand there for several more moments, just looking at my wife, their mother, knowing this will be the very last time we see her in the flesh.
More people enter the church behind us, and I know the service is about to start. Gathering every bit of courage I can muster, I take one final look at Molly. “I love you, baby. Forevermore.”
Later that night, after everyone is gone and the kids are asleep, I lie in bed feeling like my chest is caving in on itself. Most days, it’s hard to breathe, and some days I don’t even want to breathe.
I’m on my side of the bed, facing Molly’s. Her pillow is still there, and I’ve yet to wash the pillowcase. I’m sure her scent is already gone, but I swear I still detect it lingering.
I snatch the pillow to me and hug it tight to my face, burying my nose in the softness and breathing in deep. Yep, I can still smell her.
My eyes move to the nightstand and the two journals sitting on top. Lifting up to my elbow, I grab them both. One is Molly’s, and the other is the last one Clara wrote. Despite Molly giving me permission to read her journals, I haven’t found the courage. I’m not worried I’ll find anything bad in there. It’s just the opposite, in fact. Molly documented our life together. I’m not ready to read Molly’s inner thoughts yet. One day I will be, but right now would be too painful.
Even so, I finger the cover, my fingertips slowly tracing Molly’s name that I branded into the leather. When I made the cover for the first journal I gave her, I had no idea at the time that she would actually use it, let alone fill it up and ask for another. It also didn’t cross my eight-year-old mind that Molly and I would one day be married. I knew there was some intangible connection between us, but I didn’t realize how deep it was. How much I would one day love and cherish her. And I certainly never thought that we could possibly be reincarnations from previous lives.
My eyes move to Clara’s journal. These I have read. I finished the last one the day before Molly died. She kept me up to date with everything going on in Clara and Charles’ lives, but if we are actually them, I wanted to read it firsthand. I knew it was a long shot, and maybe even crazy to think it might work, but I wanted to see if it triggered a memory or recognition or something that would give me even the slightest clue that we really are. Nothing happened. No big aha moment or feelings of déjà vu.
The disappointment was harsh when I realized it didn’t work,