Like Her Mama

“Susie, your ice cream,” he warns.

“Oh, Fudge!” She tilts her head and licks the rivulet escaping the cone. 

He chuckles, rolling his eyes heavenward. She swirls her tongue around the edges to prevent further spillage. Tenderly, he wipes away a little chocolate smudge beside the curve of her upturned mouth with his thumb and licks it clean. His eyes never leave hers. 

“You better wipe that look off your face, mister, or I’ll become a puddle at your feet,” she says, “and this ice cream will melt right along with me. Think of the mess!”

“Well now, that don’t sound so bad to me. I ain’t ever been scared of a little mess.” He winks. 

Her cheeks flush pink.

“Patrick!” She crosses one leg over the other. “You can’t buy a girl ice cream and not give her time to eat it. At least not this girl.”

 Susie leans back against the weathered wooden bench, smoothing her skirt with her free hand. Patrick settles next to her, draping an arm around her shoulders and shoving the other hand into his pocket. He watches her with a softness to his gaze even as he bounces one of his heels up and down.

A little girl riding a tricycle veers off the path toward the couple, all giggles and curls. Her father smiles apologetically as he guides her back on course. She takes off again and her tinkling laughter settles around the couple. Patrick squeezes Susie’s shoulder and they share a soft smile.

“Do I have anything on my face now?” Susie turns fully toward Patrick after polishing off the rest of the cone. 

After dutifully inspecting her face, he pulls a handful of napkins from his pocket. His phone starts vibrating and announces that his mother is calling. Picking it up, he slides his thumb across to decline. 

Pointedly raising one eyebrow, Susie plucks a single napkin from his hand and dabs the corner of her mouth.

“Patrick,” she says, handing him back the napkin, “you call that woman back right this instant.” She crosses her arms.

“But...” Susie glares at him. He sighs and unlocks the phone. After dialing, he pushes it tight against his ear and angles himself away.

“Hi, Ma. Uhh, yeah, no, I haven’t.” Patrick’s eyes dart toward Susie. She tilts her head and her brows draw together. “Susie insisted I call you back. Yes, ma’am.” He clears his throat. “Of course I’ll let you know. Love you, too, Ma. Bye now.”

As he puts the phone away, the forgotten napkins flutter to the ground. Susie starts to rise, but he waves her off as he kneels to retrieve them.

“What did your mother want, Patrick? What are you supposed to let her know about?” She leans toward him.

“Uh, she wanted to know…” He clears his throat and repositions himself so one knee is raised. He crams the napkins back in his pocket.

“She wanted to know what? I swear, I don’t know why you’re acti–”

Her hands fly to her face; her eyes gleam and her rosy lips form an O. Held in his outstretched hand is a box. A very small box.  

Patrick swallows hard. His eyes seek hers, hoping the answer to the unasked question lies within. Her eyes are brimming with tears. Are they happy ones? He readjusts his stance and sucks in as much air as his lungs will hold. 

“You know I ain’t too good at this kinda thing. But, well. I was, um… I was wonderin’…” He opens the box, almost dropping it. “I was hopin’, more like...” He chuckles. After a final deep breath, he asks, his voice thick, “Would you marry me, Susie?” 

Everything is still. In that moment, in that heartbeat, his whole future hangs in the balance. She reaches for him, beaming. Her unshed tears spill over, creating happy trails down her cheeks. 

“Yes! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” 

They’re both laughing and crying as his big, shaky hands struggle to slip the ring onto her ring finger. She’s shaking, too. The stone glitters almost as brightly as their grins as she raises her hand to admire it in the light.

She is swept off her feet and into the air, her new fiancé swinging her around effortlessly. Their smiling lips are sealed by a kiss as they dream about their future. Dreams of a little house with a fenced-in yard in the suburbs. Dreams of a cradle made by Patrick’s father with a newborn daughter that looks just like her mama to fill it. Dreams of a golden retriever to lie at their feet. 

Around them, people stop what they are doing to applaud and make their way into a formation. “Marry You” by Bruno Mars starts playing, and a choreographed dance begins. 

The deep rumble of my own chuckle brings me back to the present. I blink to refocus my eyes, thinking that Becky would be proud of how I’d taken up storytelling in her absence. In reality, the young couple in question is simply eating ice cream on the bench across the path from me. The same bench where the initials D&B are deeply etched and enclosed in an imperfect heart.

I use my cane to haul myself upright and shuffle onto the path. Maybe it’s just the wishful thinking of an old romantic fool, but I think I can make out the outline of a box in the young man’s pocket as I pass them. Perhaps their future won’t be far off from the happily ever after I invented for them.

For fifty-plus years, Becky and I came here together and, oh, the stories she’d tell. People watching was her favorite pastime. Watching her was mine. Right up until I watched her through my tears as she took her final breath, the ghost of a smile still on her face. 

That was six months ago. I’ve visited the cemetery nearly every day since, plodding my way through the now-familiar maze to our plot.

Mitchell

Rebecca M. Douglas E. 

May 11, 1952 – February 5, 2026 September 9, 1951 –  

It seems fitting that the rest of my life is blank space on a stone. I must say, I prefer the carving on the worn wooden bench to the inscription in the granite. So every day after making sure the grave is tended, I head to the park. Our park. I feel closer to her there.

Now as I step through the park gate and continue along the suburban street, I catch my first glimpse of home: Becky’s rose bushes by the road. As I get closer, I see an SUV parked in the drive. Our daughter is leaning against it. A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. She spots me and grins back. Lord, she looks just like her mama.