Two years later
The fall wind makes a grab for my hair as I run across the campus of the New York Conservatory. My shoes swoosh across the cut grass as the sun warms my face. I hold the string tighter in my hand and stop and watch overhead.
Where my white kite dances and soars above.
“I thought we were studying for midterms.”
I turn and find Beckett Rush standing behind me, a backpack slung over one shoulder and laughing eyes trained right on me.
“It’s too nice a day. We need a break.”
“You sound more like a senior than a freshman.” He walks to me, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses my warm cheek. He gestures to the kite. “Did you learn this in your support group?”
The one I go to once a week. The one I’ll be leading beginning next month. “Nope. Did you make a decision about that script?”
“Da’ and I are still discussing it.”
Since Beckett’s only doing one movie a year now in between his studies at NYU, he has to make it count. And so far he has. Last year he got a Golden Globe Award for his portrayal of a young Charles Dickens in a small indie film. Good roles are starting to come his way.
And so far, no biting required.
“Bring it back in a bit,” Beckett says. “Your kite’s getting too far out.”
But I don’t.
Instead I think of it touching heaven, sending a hello to my brother Will. To Mrs. Sweeney.
This Christmas Beckett and I will return to Ireland, to visit some of his mother’s relatives and to put flowers on Mrs. Sweeney’s grave. Which is right by her son’s.
The woman who taught me to let go. Let God in. And mend.
To let love fly like a kite in the clouds, untethered by darkness and hurt.
Four years ago my brother Will died, and my world crumbled into a million tiny fragments.
Two years ago I went to Ireland.
I met an arrogant vampire, an angry old woman, and a mischievous nun.
And I met God.
Who slowly, painfully, divinely pieced me back together.
A huge gale blows across the commons. “Hold on to it, Finley.”
Beckett reaches for my string.
But it’s too late.
I let it go.