Colleen stared out over the water, where one day soon they would scatter his ashes. “He didn’t have to read it; he lived it.”

Hallie cleared her throat to break through the grief gripping them all. “It’s been killing me, trying to remember the last thing he said to me. You”—she turned to Colleen—“had these profound last moments and conversations with him and I couldn’t remember. And I felt like I never would.”

“And you did?” Shane asked Hallie.

“I did. But it wasn’t until I quit trying so hard and realized that I might never remember. I thought so much of how it must feel for Dad to lose memories, to be so lost. He had to try hard to remember things, only to realize he couldn’t, and not just little things but things that mattered.”

Colleen watched her sister carefully. “What did he say to you?”

Hallie paused. “I said good night to him before tucking the girls into bed. I told him I hoped one day you’d be able to forget about the church and the kiss. He said that no, you should never forget. That would be the worst thing because it’s memories that make us who we are. Forgiving perhaps, but no, not forgetting—he was nearly shouting—never the forgetting.”

“So what was the last thing?” Colleen almost whispered.

Hallie lifted her face to the stars. “‘Never the forgetting.’”

Shane began to hum “The Lark in the Clear Air.” “I researched the song,” he said after a while. “I was going to tell the story at the party.” He stared off over the river. “It was a poem first, written by Sir Samuel Ferguson. His wife . . . get this”—he paused for effect—“was part of the Guinness family. The poem was then put to music on a harp to an old Irish air called ‘Kitty Nowlan.’ The song has as rich a history as Dad did.”

“That is so beautiful,” Colleen said.

“As Dad once told me,” Shane said, “‘my body will live longer without food than I can live without meaning.’ Maybe he knew that. Deep down maybe he went out on that boat . . .”

“Don’t say it, Shane.” Colleen rested her hand on his leg. “We can’t guess. We can’t know. Don’t.”

“We were prepared to deal with taking care of him.” Hallie’s voice sounded choked. “We had our lists and I’d moved in.” Her voice broke at the end and Colleen knew what they had prepared for, and she would have chosen that, chosen that deterioration over this loss. But would their dad?

In silence together they returned to the house, to their dad’s house, to sleep and then to wake to another day filled with his absence.

•   •   •