Jesus has experienced a fall, but not to his death at the bottom of the valley. Instead, he has fallen to his knees on Sally’s fresh grave, consumed by the weight of her loss.
As the funeral draws to a somber and solitary close, the mourners trickle away. A handful of relatives linger, bidding farewell to the last attendees, marking the end of a long and emotionally exhausting day.
Everybody is dressed in black for the funeral, except Jesus, who is in the same gray shirt he was wearing when he first received the tragic news. He is not here just to show up, pay respect, or even offer condolences. He is here because he had to see Sally’s face for one last time. Now that he has seen it, he cannot bring himself to say goodbye.
Kneeling beside Sally’s grave, Jesus runs his fingers through the fresh soil, feeling the gritty texture against his skin. He cups a handful of earth and brings it to his face, studying it with a mixture of sorrow and fascination. Craving Sally’s scent for one last time, he inhales deeply but smells nothing except the scent of damp earth.
As he smears the soil across his face, his anguish erupts, and within moments, he collapses to the ground in a torrent of tears. As his sobs intensify, he stretches out his hand over the soil on the grave like he is reaching out to embrace the soul beneath. I’m sorry, Sally, he mutters.
Through teary eyes, Jesus’ blurry vision clears just enough to reveal the faint outline of Sally in a stunning black dress approaching. The soothing sight replaces his cries with a hopeful smile. He longs to spring up and rush to her, but he’s afraid this might be a dream and he’d wake up if he tried to move. If it is a dream, he wants it to last as long as possible. Jesus blinks several times, but his vision remains hazy.
As Sally approaches him, Jesus remains huddled over the grave, holding onto it tightly as if it were a lifeline.
Sitting on the opposite side of the grave, Sally caresses his hand and says, “It’s not your fault.”
Her voice is different.
The tower of hope that Jesus has built collapses with his next blink. He can see clearly now, and he wishes he didn’t; this girl is not Sally.
“I’ve heard what Arthur did,” she continues. “I don’t think that was fair.”
Jesus squints. Studying the girl’s face, he tries to place her.
“Oh, I’m Annie, by the way. Sally’s bestie. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“How can I ever…forgive myself?” Jesus squeaks and bites his lips, looking down at the grave.
“Come on now,” Annie continues. “Hey, you shouldn’t blame yourself. Don’t listen to Arthur. What do you expect him to do? He’s a father. He’s got to blame somebody. He is just another old father, who—”
“Can you take me there?”
“Where?… Why?”
Jesus sits up. “I want to…I’ve got to feel her last moments,” he says, like a parched man describing water.
“Ah… I’m not sure if that would be a good idea.”
“Please,” Jesus pleads, holding her hand.
Annie sighs, torn between helping Jesus and protecting him. Out of all Sally’s boyfriends, Annie held a special affection for the goofy Jesus. When Sally decided to break up with him, Annie was the one advising her against it. But Sally had developed new dreams for her future; dreams so powerful that made the reality with Jesus painfully mundane.
Annie takes another look at Jesus. She finds it hard to say no to those begging eyes. But something in her gut tells her that this would not end well.