A Bird on a Windowsill (26 page)

Epilogue Two

Salem 

Day 28,105

P
eople say birds are a bad omen.

They’re wrong.

M
y name is Salem Ebenezer. But as you know, you can call me
Eben
.

I fell in love with Savannah Elise Catesby a long time ago. I can’t exactly tell you if it was on Day One or Day 4,592. But I can tell you that on that very first day I saw her at that little creek that crawled right through the center of our little hometown, she stole my heart.

And I’ve never once asked for it back.

But then again, the mind gets foggy over time. And the things you thought you’d never lose sight of, somehow, you do. Because one day, I forgot she had my heart, and I almost lost her for it.

See, on that day I was asking her to choose, I had forgotten something. I had forgotten that I had already made my choice long before she ever had a chance to say a word. And that’s all that really mattered. Because no matter what she said or didn’t say, I loved her. I loved Savannah Catesby. That was my answer. That was the story I would forever tell; that was the dream I would forever live in. I would love her. I would love her with every breath I took—until my last.

So, yes, while she didn’t choose me that day, I sure as hell chose her.

And I still chose her every day after that.

I chose her every morning before the sun came up and the air was cool and I found her under the covers and I pressed my skin to hers.

I chose her every afternoon in those moments where my mind would drift back to the days when her hair was short and our adventures were long.

I chose her every evening when the sun was tiptoeing on that orange horizon and she was in my arms, telling me about her day.

And every night, when we were climbing the stairs in our little home, next to our little star tower on Sheppard’s Hill, I chose her.

And I can’t tell you how my life would have turned out had she not come home. I only know that my heart would have always been with her.

I’m eighty-two today. I’m standing with a cane in a field next to a little, stone church. I’m not alone. Although some might say I am, I’m not.

Vannah’s here. She’s in my heart.

A lot of people came up to me yesterday and gave me their sympathies and reminded me that we had fifty-seven good years together. I always corrected them and said:
We had seventy-seven. We had seventy-seven good years together.

Seventy-seven years
. The number makes it seem as though it was enough. But it wasn’t.

“Vannah...” My voice catches, and I start again. “Vannah, it hasn’t even been a day, and I’ve already forgotten how I like my toast. I didn’t even realize, until this morning, that you always made it for me. And there are other things, too. I’ve forgotten if I take two sugars or one; you always knew. I’ve even forgotten how I filled my days because for the last day, I’ve only been doing what you always enjoyed doing: I’ve fed your hummingbirds; I’ve watched the cooking channel; and I’ve organized your gardening magazines.

But there are some things I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten which chair is yours; it’s pushed under the table. I stared at it for a long time this morning, pretending you were just at your sister’s for breakfast. And I haven’t forgotten what side of the porch swing was your favorite—the right. You said it was because you could see the kids coming down the road first and you could jump up and get supper on the table. But I knew better. You liked the right side because from that side, you could see my old truck. I would catch you smiling at it every once in a while. I know you missed being young in that old vinyl just as much as I do.”

I grow quiet as a warm breeze pushes past me. Then carefully, I lean against my cane and gently set a photo down onto the ground next to the stone that reads her name. It’s the Polaroid of those green fields in the river bottoms.

“They’re still there,
V
. I want you to remember that our names are still there, bouncing off those levees.”

I take a handkerchief from my shirt pocket and wipe my eyes.

“I want you to remember that they’ll always be there—yours and mine, together.”

I pause and look at her name etched in that stone:
Savannah (Vannah) Elise Ebenezer.

The second death.

I use the handkerchief to wipe my eyes some more. They leak the more my heart longs for her gentle touch—just one more time.

“There was a second,” I say to her. “We couldn’t help that. But there won’t be a third, my bird.”

And from somewhere deep inside my soul, a sob escapes me.

“I miss you, Vannah.”

I stare into that photo against the turned-up dirt, and I think about the only girl who ever had my heart. And I don’t know how much time the good Lord has me down here still, but I do know this for sure: I was made to love a little girl with short blond hair and green eyes, who liked stars and made up stories about magic keys. I was put here to love her. And until my last breath, that’s what I’ll keep doing. And I’ll keep loving her right into the next life, too. Because it doesn’t matter the day or the hour or the life—I choose her. I’ll always choose her because bottom line, I never really had a choice. She was just a bird on a windowsill. But she was always
my bird.

The End
 

The future for me is already a thing of the past. You were my first love and you will be my last.
~Bob Dylan
 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 

There are so many people who have touched my writing career and this book, in particular, that I can’t possibly fit all my gratitude for them into one book, much less one page. But here is my best attempt at thanking a few of you.

As always, I thank God, my greatest inspiration, for giving me the opportunity to write each and every day.

And thank you to my amazing editors and sources for all your time and contributions. Thank you especially to Donna, Calvin, Kathy, April, Sharon, Jon, Jesse and Mike. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. None of my stories would be what they are today without you!

And thank you to my newspaper friends and former editors, including Steve, John, Tom, Bruce and Andy. Thank you for teaching me how to tell a story. Today, the stories might be different, but my mind is never far away from that black ink. [The]
wise shall be the bearers of light. ~Walter Williams

And thank YOU, for reading. I know there are so many stories out there. Thank you for taking a chance on my small-town characters. Thank you for taking the ride with them—for pulling for them, for cheering them on. And as always, thank you for cheering me on!

And a special thank you also goes to the amazing bloggers all over the world for their enthusiasm and loyal support and love of fairy tales. Know that we, as writers, are ever grateful for your commitment to literature.

I would also like to thank my family, including Jack, Aurora and Levi, who continues to be my biggest fans and greatest supporters. And thank you also to my friends and mentors, who are ever inspiring me.

And lastly but definitely not least, I would like to thank my husband, Neville. Thank you for your constant encouragement from the very beginning of this grand adventure. Honey, you steal my heart every day. And I’ll never ask for it back. I love you!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 

Photo by Neville Miller
 

LAURA MILLER is the national bestselling author of the novels,
Butterfly Weeds, My Butterfly, For All You Have Left, By Way of Accident, When Cicadas Cry
and
A Bird on a Windowsill
. She grew up in Missouri, graduated from the University of Missouri-Columbia and worked as a newspaper reporter prior to writing fiction. Laura currently lives in the Midwest with her husband. Visit her and learn more about her books at
LauraMillerBooks.com
.
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