PART THIRTEEN — RICHARD’S LAST NIGHT
Richard died in the house at eighty-one.
All nine daughters were present.
Rain struck the windows.
Not a violent storm.
A steady spring rain.
Violet played the lullaby Richard once hummed off-key while pacing between cribs.
Rose held one hand.
Anne held the other.
His breathing became slower.
Jasmine asked whether he was afraid.
Richard whispered, “Tired.”
Lily laughed softly.
“You’ve been tired since 1979.”
He smiled.
Then he looked toward Anne’s photograph above the fireplace.
The same photograph had watched him bring home nine babies.
“Did love have somewhere to go?” Holly asked.
Richard’s eyes moved across his daughters.
“Too many places,” he whispered.
Those were his last words.
The funeral drew thousands.
The sisters refused a private ceremony because the town had helped raise them. They also refused media inside the church.
Outside, people held photographs.
Richard carrying bottles.
Richard braiding hair badly.
Richard asleep at the kitchen table with two toddlers on his chest.
Richard at graduations.
Weddings.
Court ceremonies.
Hospital openings.
Concerts.
The coffin was built from wood Daisy selected and local carpenters shaped.
Inside, the sisters placed nine objects.
A book.
A skate lace.
A fountain pen.
A guitar pick.
A small wrench.
A press badge.
A calculator key.
A dog tag.
A surgical cap.
Anne placed the brown notebook from their first year beside his hands.
On the final page, Richard had written:
I thought I saved nine girls from separation. They saved one man from believing grief was the end of love.
