Meranda Thompson

Meranda Thompson is 72 years old. She cried today.

I typed away on the computer before me, my white hair hanging over my shoulder. I wrapped up my last words. Writing a will is much is much more complicated than it seems. I can't just think about everything I own and love and decide who gets it. You have to reach back into your past, and decide who deserves it. I promised my daughter when she was 6 she'd have my jewelery, and I promised my son his fathers' T Bird. His father...I missed him. I wondered where he was, what he was doing. 

Tom.

Tom Jordin. 

Brown hair, blue eyes, muscular, a good 4 inches taller than me. 

We were both seniors. He was the love of my life. I never loved anyone quite the same after him...

"Mam?" I was pulled out of my thoughts when the young man in the black suit and purple tie startled me. 

"Oh I'm sorry," I laughed, taking off my glasses, "I was just-"

"Mam are you finished?" He sighed, shifting on his feet. My mouth opened a gap and I nodded. He took the laptop off the hospital desk that he rolled over my bed, and pulled out a form. 

"Please sign here, here, and here."

"What's this for?"

"Ugh, mam, it's proof that I was here, you were here, and that you wrote your will without me saying anything."

I nodded and signed it, the black ink smearing a bit as I moved my hand down to the next line. As soon as I finished the last curl of my last name, the man whipped away the form, shoving it into his briefcase. "Have a nice day mam."

"Sir?" I asked as he started to leave.

"Yes mam?"

"Can you find people?"

"What do you mean mam?"

"There's someone I haven't spoken to in several years and I'd like to say goodbye, but-"

"I'm sorry mam, we can't do that." He turned and left without another word.

I sighed and leaned back, thinking about Tom again.

I could remember every detail in his face, his body, his lips. The way his fingers felt when they entwined mine, the way it felt when he kissed me. 

I'll never forget the day he left for college. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he told me he wanted to spend his last few hours with me. And that's how my son happened. 

Being a pregnant freshman in college was...interesting. I tried to call him, but he never answered. After a while, I just gave up.

I wanted more than anything to see him before I go...which could be any day apparently. 
I thought for the rest of the day about him. Crying over him. Missing him. Wondering if he missed me.
My daughter came and visited a few hours later, sneaking in a Snickers bar. I laughed and said thank you. 
A while after she came in, so did my doctor, announcing that because of my stroke, blood is not sufficiently getting to my brain, and the chance of my surviving another stroke are slim to none. 
My daughter cried, but I didn't. I knew that my time was coming. It was just a matter of time. 
Little did I know that later that night, in a mere 7 hours, that time would come, my daughter next to me.

~~~

a week later a group of people wearing black gathered around a small hunk of granite with scribbled letters that meant everything to some. As everyone slowly turns to leave, one woman and one man stay, just watching the stone. They stay for a long time. She finally sighs and turns to leave, eyes red and puffy. She looks up and sees and elderly man with a brown cane, half his weight shifting on it with every other step. He held one rose in his hand. As the woman watched, she saw him waddle over to the same chunk of granite that she had been watching. He put his hand over his face and laid down the rose.

"Sir," she asked, "Do I know you? Or did you know my mother?"

The man cleared his throat, holding out his wrinkled hand, "I'm sorry, I don't think I've met you. I'm Tom."

The girl smiled and laughed. "You may want to meet him," the woman said, pointing to the man that was standing a few feet away. Tom's eyes grew wide as he realized what she meant, walked to the man and embraced him. 

The three of them went to have coffee, and everything changed.