While townies prepared for the biggest parade of the year, painting their faces green and dying their hair orange, Maggie went through the motions of what would forever be known as the eve of her darkest day.
St. Patrick’s Day had been her last day with Nash. It had been the last time she’d been happy. Each year, she had recreated the day as closely as she could remember, so she’d never forget what that happiness felt like. But there was always something painful hidden in the masquerade, something that hadn’t existed when they were both alive.
The morning of St. Paddy’s Day smelled of spring pushing against the last remnants of winter. The air was festively full of mist, and the trees were now starting to green. Things didn’t seem as dreary, and for some people, maybe they weren’t.
Opening the dresser, she removed his Jethro Tull T-shirt from the plastic bag and pressed her face to the fabric. His scent, faded but still slightly there, filled her lungs and tears dampened her lashes.
She lowered to the floor, weeping into the fabric as she cradled it to her chest. It was the last thing he wore, not destroyed by blood. Afraid of ruining the scent of his skin on the worn cotton fibers, she forced herself to fold the shirt and return it to the bag, sealing it tight. She gently shut the drawer.
The urge to race to the cemetery pulled hard, but this was the one day she wouldn’t go. Today he was alive. Today, his spirit was here, beside her, in their house, not in the cold ground.
In the kitchen she made coffee the way he did, with an extra scoop. She used to sweeten hers with sugar and cream, so she bought some just for today. Nash always preferred the stuff black, which was how she took it to his grave each morning.
Carefully pulling down his favorite mug, she filled it next to hers and carried the coffee to the back porch. The sight of his empty Adirondack chair beside the firepit struck like a cannonball punching through her chest.
Her hold on the mugs loosened, and hot liquid burned her thumb. Tightening her grip, she crossed the lawn.
“Coffee, my love.”
She set his mug on the cold stones of the firepit and took her seat. He always brought her a throw blanket on cold mornings like this. The afghan, knit of genuine Irish wool, smelled of long autumn nights and misty spring mornings, bonfires, and metallic cold. All things that reminded her of Nash.
She pulled the throw over her knees and sipped her coffee, wincing at the forgotten sweetness. “We have that thing with my sister tonight.”
This would be the moment he made a joke about Perrin dating another man completely wrong for her. Maggie would agree and they’d wrack their brains trying to come up with someone right for her sister.
Most of the townspeople would be at O’Malley’s tonight, but they never went there on account of his family’s lost connection to the bar. Maggie was an O’Malley by marriage, so she abided by the O’Malley rules. But St. Paddy’s Day was still an important day to celebrate.
She stared at his empty seat through the steam rising from the mug. “We should run into town and buy something green to wear.”
The words came like a memorized script, and if she didn’t panic at the truth that he was gone, she could almost hear the memory of his reply. “Definitely. I want one of those big hats.”
He’d buy a ridiculous top hat, and she’d buy a headband with spring antennae shamrocks. On their walk home, they’d get stuck on the parade route and wind up slipping in behind the high school marching band. When they played Dennis Day’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade, Nash, a true Irishman through and through, would sing the lyrics in his best Irish lilt.
She could still remember laughing until her belly hurt. The marching band students had glared at them over their instruments, but Nash always loved an audience—even an irritated one.
She smiled to herself, remembering how he could make any spontaneous moment seem purposeful. He could make waiting in line at the grocery store the most exciting place in the world.
The parade route always traveled down Main Street, past the large crowd gathered in O’Malley’s lot, past the schools and churches, then ended by the farmers’ market. Nash had been starving by the end of the parade that day, so they slipped into the market and bought some bananas. He’d also bought her a bouquet of green carnations, which she had dried and saved in a hat box she kept on the shelf of her bedroom closet.
Her lashes flicked as her vision blurred. No tears. Not today. She sipped her sweet coffee and shut her eyes, remembering that walk home.