Page 50 of Go Back to December

Someone clears their throat.

As I look up, I find Peter’s calm gaze. Sofia nods, and Luiza sits with her mouth gaping.

The first line of the poem is the same as the title. What comes out of my mouth sounds vaguely like: In dee shadow vonda will leg.

A few of the Moneys in the front nod, including the white-haired woman.

Pretty much everyone else looks about as confused as a duck in a desert.

The next lines read:

Ik wacht op je

Het verloor vandaag zijn laatste bladeren

En de kaalheid was prachtig

I recite it exactly as it’s written. Which is not correct at all, judging by the wincing of a man in the corner, who is probably from the Netherlands, or at least somewhere Benelux adjacent.

Luiza bows her head. Her shoulders vibrate.

There are two more stanzas. I will never get through this; I’ll choke. Just like with Alicia and those Moneys, but I can’t cower in the kitchen, or flee out back. I’m stranded here.

I don’t want to be stuck, frozen. My recent brush with death, and this judge’s legacy remind me that life is here. To get what I want out of it, I have to keep moving.

Watching this room full of Moneys, I realize that if Baz’s right, they all hustle. So, we’re all in this together. If I’m going down, I’m taking them all with me.

After collecting another breath, I say, “Please, everyone. Join me for the rest.”

The judge’s family and friends in the front row nod. Dozens of other voices rise in a jarring clash of consonants and vowels with a completely un-uniform cadence. The recitation fades off gradually; the final straggling words echo like those last runners falling over the finish line at a marathon.

My shaking legs drag my sweat-drenched body back to my seat. Sofia and Peter nod proudly, and Luiza throws me a small smile, but now that the moment has passed, and I’ve survived, my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on me.

I grab my purse and coat, mumble something about the restroom, and beat feet.

The bar is the closest refuge. I prop myself on the comforting support of the wood counter and beg the bartender for a glass of water. I drain it quickly and demand a refill.

“Pour it in a pint glass, less ice,” Peter says from behind me. “And a single malt.”

He smiles. “I saw you had a whiskey the other night. Thought you could use one. I’d join you, but I’m driving.”

When the bartender brings the drinks and water for Peter, he lifts his glass to meet mine. “To those who’ve gone before us.”

“Cheers.”

As the whiskey warms my throat, I wish I could find the words to express how grateful I am that he came after me. I didn’t realize I wanted someone to. “Thank you. I’m sorry for rushing out like that.”

“Don’t be. I couldn’t have done what you just did that gracefully. Baz should have been here to experience it.” He sighs heavily, Johnson-style. “I’m going to bet all the liquor in this bar that Baz has never told you about his brief obsession with ceramics.”

“He sure didn’t,” I say with barely-concealed delight.

Peter grins. “Sofia used to teach art classes from home before she opened the gallery. She had a potting wheel and a kiln out in the barn, and all the kids in the neighborhood signed up. Baz vehemently refused to participate.”

I roll my eyes sympathetically.

Peter nods appreciatively. “He was about eight or nine. We thought he fancied himself too cool for school. But he would sit in the back of every class, watching as his friends slaved over works of clay that rarely resulted in distinguishable objects.”

We laugh together. “I can imagine.”