EPILOGUE: FIND YOUR NEXT HOLD
The next Saturday, my mother took Jack to the park, and I drove to the climbing gym for the first time in nearly two years.
The smell hit me at the door. Chalk, rubber, old sweat. The wall rose before me in a patchwork of colored holds, and my heart thumped as if I were facing someone I’d wronged.
I put on a borrowed harness. My hands shook so badly I fumbled the first knot.
“You don’t have to see the whole route,” I whispered. “Just find your next hold.”
I reached up. My fingers closed around the first hold, cool and rough and familiar.
I climbed.
It wasn’t graceful. My forearms burned by the halfway point. But I kept going, one hold, then the next, until my fingertips touched the top bell and its ring echoed across the gym.
I hung there, breathing hard, tears sliding down my face.
I had spent so long afraid of falling that I’d forgotten I knew how to climb.
The next Sunday, I brought Jack to the cemetery in his little brown jacket. The cap sat on the ledge beside him, its crooked gold braid right where we’d left it. I couldn’t bring myself to move it.
“Dada,” Jack said softly, patting the granite.
“I know, baby,” I whispered. “We’re okay now. We’re finding our way up.”
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
