even now, there are certain days when joel has to stop himself from calling out: “sarah? ‘m home!” some nights that old house feels especially empty and he swears he can hear the chime of her laughter, small feet putting on a one woman show to the bash or halican drops. on occasion he’d dance with her too despite the knots in his back or the burn in his arms from a long day at work. a rare cup of coffee (he savors every drop, these days) has joel chuckling to himself, recalling sarah’s very first taste and how she’d stuck her tongue out exclaiming “it tastes like dirt!” tommy will jab at him with his snide little jokes and in the corner of his mind, he just knows she’d join in.
the ache comes creeping in once in awhile; a sharp dagger in his chest some days, a mere surface scratch on others. the whiplash steals breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping for breath on the loneliest of nights. the grief is like a terminal illness, always looming…but luckily, he’s found remedies. more often than not, in the form of a shit-eating, freckled grin.
he’s not sure if a real cure was ever a possibility, or simply wishful thinking. but somewhere in between boston and salt lake city, that girl had cured him.
joel grins wistfully from the dim light of his porch as he watches ellie go, off to raise god knows what hell alongside dina and jesse. just like that, her childhood, too, fades away. hazel hues fall to broken watch.
a heavy sigh. he turns to go inside.
up the stairs he trudges. christ, she’d be thirty - five. instead, immortalized far too young in the old man’s memory – smiles messy with s’mores, victorious squeals after a big win and still the sweetest damn voice he’d ever hear. it’s how she deserved to be remembered. he stops at the desk in his room whereupon his younger self is framed with her. it’s a perfect snapshot of happiness. joel picks up the photo, traces sarah’s image with his thumb. that day, he’d hoisted his pride and joy on his shoulders and she celebrated herself sick with ice cream and still he recalls how she’d called it the best day ever. suddenly, there’s a small pool against the glass. and another. he’ll blink the sting from his eyes, wipe tears from them and then the photo before setting it down.
joel approaches his bed and grunts lowering to one knee. he digs around for a moment before retrieving an old, rust colored shoe box. coming to a stand, he opens it, sets it on his mattress. from his back pocket comes that trusty revolver. he feels the cool metal weigh in his hand.
“jimmy?! jimmy, just stay back! jimmy, i am warnin’ you! don’t – !”
joel raises his left wrist, staring down at that sad, old watch with its broken face like he has so many times before. the hands point to 2:15, frozen forever, right down to the minute when her heart stopped beating. she’d died in his arms but he hadn’t let her go. not for twenty - three years. joel sucks in a breath as his fingers work to unbuckle the strap. in seconds, it’s off. and there it is, sitting in his palm. his lungs start to burn as he stares…then he remembers. exhale.
he’ll run a thumb over cracked glass and then, ever so gingerly, he places the watch over faded blue fabric. joel lingers in the moment, looking down at his past, his pain, his grief…then closes the lid. he tucks the box away, back to where he found it.
boot clad footsteps carry him towards the doorway. a pause. over his shoulder joel finds sarah’s face framed beside his own, smiling brightly as ever. he smiles back at her with his hand at the doorknob.