Chapter 5: The Name We Carry

Since I got pregnant, I loved spending time in the west yard.

The air was full of birdsong and the scent of crepe myrtles. I’d sit on the old porch swing, rubbing my belly and imagining the future. The sun warmed my skin, and for a while, everything felt right.

Dad and Mom lived here when they were alive. The yard is still full of crepe myrtles. When they bloom next May, it’ll be beautiful.

Their colors—soft pinks and purples—always reminded me of Mom’s favorite dress. I pictured her laughing in the sunshine, Dad chasing after me with a garden hose, both of them so alive.

Grandma once said Mom loved myrtles, so Dad planted the whole yard for her. Jamie loves them too, and I love what he loves—so, like Mom, I love myrtles, too.

I traced the petals with my fingers, thinking about how love can grow and take root, passing from one generation to the next.

Funny thing—Nurse Ruth said pregnancy brings hard days, but it turned out I was fine. It was Jamie who suffered—nausea, headaches, fatigue, all the sympathy symptoms, he had them instead. He even wore a heating pad around his waist and ran himself ragged over a few months.

I teased him about it, but secretly I was grateful. His suffering made mine lighter, somehow. We laughed about it, sharing ginger tea and back rubs, making the hard days a little easier.

There weren’t many visitors at the old house, but he still insisted on being careful. I just let him have his way.

He sanitized every doorknob, washed his hands a dozen times a day, fretted over every little thing. I rolled my eyes, but let him fuss. It was his way of loving me.

Today, while he was resting, I snuck to the west yard and found the little clothes Mom made me as a child. I wanted to save them for the baby, but holding the soft fabric, I hesitated.

The tiny shirts and booties smelled faintly of cedar and lavender. I pressed them to my cheek, remembering how Mom’s hands felt as she dressed me.

I didn’t want to be selfish, but I just couldn’t let go.

Some things are too precious to share, even with your own child.

After thinking it over, I decided it didn’t matter. Jamie’s hands are so skillful—he can make new ones. There’s no need for the baby to wear my old clothes.

I smiled, picturing Jamie at the sewing machine, tongue stuck out in concentration. Our child would have clothes made with just as much love.

So I closed the chest and sat by the window.

The afternoon light spilled across the floor, warm and golden. I watched the shadows dance on the walls, feeling peaceful for the first time in a long while.

Mom used to embroider here. I can’t, so I just lean on the windowsill, looking up at the sky through the yard wall, thinking of Grandma, now resting beside Dad and Mom.

I traced patterns on the glass, pretending I could stitch memories into the sky. I whispered stories to the wind, hoping they’d find her.

Every time I think of her, it still hurts.

The ache is softer now, more bittersweet than sharp. I let myself feel it, knowing it’s the price of love.

Grandpa said everyone leaves eventually, and that doesn’t mean it’s goodbye. We’ll meet again in another world—some go sooner, some later.

His words comforted me, a gentle reminder that love endures, even after loss.

I’m at peace now, no longer clinging to her loss.

I let the memories wash over me, grateful for every moment we shared.

She can be with Dad and Mom again, see her beloved sisters and brothers—why should I be sad? I should be happy for her.

I pictured them together, laughing and dancing in the sunlight. The thought made me smile, even as tears pricked my eyes.

I can’t help missing her, but people have to learn to plant their own flowers.

I ran my fingers through the soil, planting seeds for the future. Life goes on, and so must I.

No matter what, I still have Jamie.

He was my anchor, my safe harbor. Together, we could get through anything.

As time passed, his sympathy symptoms slowly faded. Nurse Ruth said I was healthy, so the birth should be easy. Grandpa was relieved, and sat in Grandma’s old wheelchair, helping me think of names.

We spent lazy afternoons on the porch, tossing ideas back and forth, laughing at the silliest ones. Grandpa took the task seriously, consulting old family records and baby name books.

He thought it over for a long time, and finally picked "Mason."

He said it was a strong name, one that would carry our family forward.

Whether a boy or girl, Mason Song would be a perfect name.

We all agreed—Mason was just right. It felt like a blessing, a wish for strength and resilience.

According to old family custom, a boy should also have a middle name.

Grandpa dusted off the old family Bible, tracing the names of ancestors long gone. He wanted our child to feel connected to the past, to know where they came from.

Almost right away, “River” popped into my head. I remembered the year I took Jamie to see the river, letting the river wind wrap around us, wishing only for peace and an end to pain.

The river had always been a place of healing for me, a place where the world felt wide and full of possibility. I wanted that for my child.

I looked at my rounded belly—if it’s a boy, he’ll be called Mason River.

I whispered the name, feeling it settle into my heart. It sounded right, like a promise.

If it’s a girl, my precious pearl, she’ll be called Grace. Just as Grandma said, I’ll teach her to read and write—maybe she’ll grow into her name.

I pictured a daughter with my mother’s smile and Jamie’s eyes, running barefoot through the yard, laughter ringing in the air.

Grandpa and Jamie loved the names, so that was settled.

We celebrated with lemonade and cookies, the three of us toasting to the future under the crepe myrtles.

Looking at Grandpa’s smiling face, I realized—my child was growing inside me, but Grandpa was slowly fading.

His hands shook more each day, his voice growing fainter. I cherished every moment, knowing our time was short.

He was so old now, even talking was hard.

He rested more often, dozing in the sunlight, a peaceful smile on his lips.

But no matter how tired, he forced himself to keep going.

He wanted to see the baby, to hold on just a little longer. I admired his determination, even as it broke my heart.

I knew—he just couldn’t let me go.

He clung to life with the same stubbornness he’d shown all his life. I loved him even more for it.

Maybe, once I gave birth safely, he’d finally be able to rest.

The thought brought both comfort and sorrow. I wanted him to stay, but I couldn’t ask him to hold on forever.

The feeling was so strong that when it finally happened, I wasn’t surprised at all.

May 23rd. The weather was perfect.

The sky was cloudless, the air warm and fragrant. Birds sang in the trees, and the world felt full of promise.

I went into labor that morning while having breakfast with Grandpa. Nurse Ruth was prepared for everything. I could still walk, so I didn’t ask Jamie to come; I just went in with her.

I squeezed Grandpa’s hand. His eyes shone with pride and worry. “You’ve got this, Lila,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting.”

Grandpa waited outside, sitting in his wheelchair, face serene. I looked back at him, remembering how Mom passed away, afraid that by the time I came out, he’d be gone, my heart full of worry.

He waved, his smile steady. “Don’t you worry about me, kiddo. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Grandpa just smiled and said gently, “Don’t be afraid, Lila. Grandpa’s here.”

His words settled my nerves, giving me strength. I nodded, determined to be brave.

His voice was so warm and steady, I suddenly wasn’t afraid anymore.

I took a deep breath, letting the fear melt away. I could do this. I wasn’t alone.

Nurse Ruth helped me onto the bed. The pain grew worse, and all I could think was: giving birth is so much harder than anything else. No wonder Mom didn’t live to see Dad come home—she must have suffered so much.

I gripped the sheets, sweat beading on my forehead. I thought of all the women who’d come before me, their strength flowing through my veins.

Luckily, my body was strong, and this child wasn’t troublesome. He came quickly.

The relief was overwhelming. I heard the first cry, sharp and clear, and my heart soared.

Nurse Ruth said it was a boy.

She wrapped him in a soft blanket, placing him in my arms. He was perfect, tiny fingers curling around mine.

Mason’s cry was loud—Grandpa must have heard it. I was so weak after giving birth, but I still struggled to sit up and go see Grandpa.

I wanted him to meet his great-grandson, to see the future he’d helped build.

Nurse Ruth didn’t stop me—she let Jamie come help.

Jamie slipped his arm around my waist, supporting me as I stood. I leaned on him, grateful for his strength.

I held Mason, leaning on Jamie, step by step to Grandpa’s wheelchair. His eyes were half-closed, his irises a pale brown-blue, his hair and beard white as snow, almost translucent in the sunlight, a stray lock fluttering in the breeze.

He looked so peaceful, the sunlight painting his face with gold. I knelt beside him, placing Mason in his arms.

Mason had stopped crying, eyes squeezed shut, little mouth open. I placed him in Grandpa’s arms and saw a faint smile on his lips.

His hands trembled, but he cradled Mason with a lifetime’s tenderness. The smile on his lips was soft and content.

A new life had just arrived; an old soul was about to depart. Birth and death, beginning and end—how joyful, how sorrowful.

The circle was complete—love passing from one generation to the next. I wept, but my tears were full of gratitude as much as grief.

I knelt beside Grandpa, pressed my face to his rough, aged hand, smiling through tears.

“Sleep now, sleep...”

I whispered the words, just as he’d done for me so many times. It was my turn to let him go.

“Dear Grandpa, you’ve worked so hard all these years.”

His breath slowed, his grip loosening. I kissed his hand, hoping he could feel all the love I had for him.

His fingers twitched. I knew he heard me. When I looked up again, his eyes were fully closed.

I pressed my forehead to his knee, whispering goodbye. The sun shone down, warm and gentle, wrapping us both in light.

From then on, all that was left for me was the road home.

The world felt quieter, emptier. I stood, Mason in my arms, Jamie by my side. We walked back to the house, the future stretching out before us.

“My love...”

Jamie hugged me from behind, comforting me through his own sorrow. Now, he’s all I have left.

His arms were strong, his love steady. I leaned into him, grateful for the life we’d built together.

But it’s all right. Don’t worry about me.

I looked up at the sky, feeling a sense of peace settle over me. I wasn’t alone—not really.

I finally understand there’s a time for life and death, for parting and reunion. After so many years of hardship, my Grandpa can finally rest. That’s a good thing—no need for bitter tears.

I wiped my cheeks, smiling through the sadness. Love endures, even after goodbye.

The dead are gone. The living must learn peace.

I promised myself I’d honor their memory by living well, by loving fiercely, by never taking a single day for granted.

“Jamie, look.” I patted Jamie’s hand. “...The flowers are so beautiful.”

He followed my gaze, eyes softening as he took in the riot of color in the yard. The myrtles were in full bloom—a celebration of life in the midst of loss.

Petals drifted on the breeze, landing softly at our feet. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of hope.

One day, the flowers will wither, and so will we.

But while they’re in bloom... don’t waste a good day.

(The End)