The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [73]
I froze, and the memories of the battle came racing back. I hadn’t thought about that song in years, and I’d never told her what happened on the raft that day. But she must have seen something in my expression because she looked up at me.
“From our anniversary,” she said before going back to her knitting. “I never told you this, but while you were in the Navy, I had a dream one night,” she added. “I was in this field of wildflowers, and even though I couldn’t see you, I could hear you singing this song to me, and when I woke up, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Because up until then, I was always afraid that you weren’t coming back.”
I stood there dumbstruck. “It wasn’t a dream,” I finally said.
She just smiled and I had the sense that she’d been expecting my answer. “I know. Like I said, I heard you.”
After that, the idea that Clara and I had something powerful—spiritual, some might say—between us never left me. So some years later, I decided to start the garden and I brought her up here on our anniversary to show it to her. It wasn’t much back then, nothing like it is now, but she swore it was the most beautiful place in the world. So I tilled more ground and added more seeds the next year, all the while humming our song. I did the same thing every year of our marriage, until she finally passed away. I had her ashes scattered here, in the place she loved.
But I was a broken man after she died. I was angry and boozing and losing myself little by little in the process. I stopped tilling and planting and singing because Clara was gone and I didn’t see the reason to keep it going. I hated the world and I didn’t want to go on. I thought about killing myself more than once, but then Dawson came along. It was good to have him around. Somehow he helped remind me that I still belonged in this world, that my work here wasn’t done. But then he got taken away, too. After that, I came up here and saw the place for the first time in years. It was out of season, but some of the flowers were still blooming, and though I don’t know why, when I sang our song tears came to my eyes. I cried for Dawson, I suppose, but I also cried for me. Mainly, though, I was crying for Clara.
That was when it started. Later that night, when I got home, I saw Clara through the kitchen window. Even though it was faint, I heard her humming our song. But she was hazy, not really there, and by the time I got inside she was gone. So I went back to the cottage and started to till again. Got things ready, so to speak, and I saw her again, this time on the porch. A few weeks later, after I scattered seeds, she started coming around regularly, maybe once a week, and I was able to get closer to her before she vanished. But then, when the flowers bloomed, I came out here and wandered among the flowers, and by the time I got home I could see and hear her plain as day. Just standing right there on the porch, waiting for me, as if wondering why it took me so long to figure things out. That’s the way it’s been ever since.
She’s part of the flowers, you see? Her ashes helped to make the flowers grow, and the more they grew, the more alive she became. And as long as I kept the flowers going, Clara could find a way to come back to me.
So that’s why you’re here, and that’s why I asked you to do this for me. This is our place, a tiny corner of the world where love can make anything possible. I think that the two of you, more than anyone else, will understand that.
But now it’s time for me to join her. It’s time for us to sing together. It’s my time and I have no regrets. I’m back with Clara again, and that’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be. Scatter my ashes to the wind and flowers, and don’t cry for me. Instead, I want you to smile for the both of us; smile with joy for me and