By Cecelia

The day before Dee headed to Mississippi, she called and asked me to meet her for lunch at Cracker Barrel.
Her usual spot. The one she used for everything from catching up with friends to hosting family Thanksgivings.

It wasn’t unusual for Dee to gather people around a table, but that day felt different.
Usually when we met for lunch, Carroll and Melba were part of the gang—but not today.

Dee isn’t likely to be jocular or jovial; her demeanor is usually reserved and quiet.
Her voice is soft and sweet and has a lilt when she tells you something exciting.

But that day, her voice was even softer.
There was a stillness in her that wasn’t just calm—it was sorrow.

I knew something was amiss as she tried to laugh at nearly everything—from greeting me to the hostess seating us, even when she ordered her usual half-sweet, half-unsweet tea.
The kind of laughter that’s more habit than joy.
I didn’t ask what was going on.
I was letting her pace herself.

“Do you remember me telling you about the horse that chose me?”
Her voice was barely a whisper as she grabbed her tea and took a giant gulp.

“Yes, sure,” I said, already knowing where this was going.
“I remember you telling me how you went there to sell things—not to buy anything. You weren’t going to buy a horse… but that horse—you had to have him.”

Dee ordered her usual—a child’s plate of vegetables—and I ordered a meatloaf lunch.
She picked up a cornbread muffin, looked at it, set it back down on the plate, and sighed.
That sigh said more than words could have.

“What’s going on?”
“Are you okay?” I lowered my voice to match hers.

“You remember Mary Pinkerton has Skywalker over at her place in Mississippi?”
I nodded.
“Mary called me. She said Skywalker isn’t doing too good.”
Dee’s voice trembled slightly.
“She sounded urgent.”

“Are you going over there today?” I asked.

“I told Mary… there’s no way I can get there today.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Dee looked down at her plate.
The cornbread muffin still sat untouched.

“No,” she said quietly. “I’ve gotta do this by myself.”
She paused. Her eyes didn’t meet mine.
“I’m not sure I can mentally accept it… or cope with it.”

The silence between us grew thick, like the air before a summer storm.
I didn’t fill it.
I just sat with her.

There are no right words in that kind of grief.
Only presence.

“Are you going in the morning?”

“Yes. I’ve got to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

“Yes… I’ll call you when I get home tomorrow.”

“How long will it take you to get there?”

“A little over an hour or so.”

“Be sure to call if you need me.”

That night, I didn’t sleep well.

I awoke with worry and a touch of fear in my soul.
I worried about her driving.
Worried about what she would find when she got there.
And I prayed.

Prayed she would get to love on him one last time…
before he slipped away.

The next evening, when caller ID showed it was Dee, my heart jumped.
With a deep breath, I answered.

“Oh, Cece… it was beautiful and so sad, all at the same time,” she said, her voice trembling.
“There was my beautiful Skywalker—skinny, and unable to get up.
But when he heard my voice, he raised his head.”

She paused, and I could hear her holding back tears.

“When our eyes met—oh my God—I lost it.
I fell to the earth in front of him… that big blue eye looking up at me.
We held each other… silently, lovingly.
And I couldn’t stop the tears.”

Dee, being her practical self, cleared her throat deeply.
And in her very matter-of-fact way, seemed to gather her strength.
“Well,” she said, steadying her voice, “I can’t think about that anymore.”

Sometimes, the ones we love don’t speak in words.
They speak in looks, in breath, in presence.
And when they leave, the silence they leave behind is sacred.

Skywalker touched the earth—and left it more beautiful because he was here.