The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

carefully uproot a sunflower to replant, although with my tattoo, I’ll always have a part of her garden
with me, no matter where I may go. I smile as the tattoo peeks out from underneath my mom’s black
cardigan, pulling the sleeve down as my dad appears over my shoulder with a mug from his truck for
me to put the flower in.
My mom’s polka-dot mug. Not gone forever, but here.
We pull out of the driveway for the last time, the house fading from view as we drive o down the
street, the mug clutched in my hands, everything I need from the house right here with me. All the
important stuff.
Every step I take is a step toward a new, uncertain chapter in my life, something about a fresh start
feeling good. Inviting. A new beginning waiting just around the corner.
Aer we unload the moving truck at our new house, I climb the steps to my room, surprised when I
step inside and see that the bubblegum-pink walls are gone, replaced with the same eshell white as
my old room, a blank slate for me to fill with posters and pictures of cake designs and handwritten
recipes.
Dad.
ere’s a light knock on the door, and I look over to see Johnny peeking inside. He gives me a small
smile, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling.
“I’m gonna head out, but”—he holds up a wrapped, rectangular object, about the size of a textbook
—“she wanted me to give this to you.”
My heart jumps at the thought of Blake. I reach out and take it, my fingers wrapping around the
solid edges.
Clearing his throat, he runs his fingers through his hair in a way that is painfully familiar. “I know
something happened between the two of you. I don’t exactly know the specifics, Clark, but I sure hope
you two find a way through it.” He smiles at me before patting my shoulder and leaving.
Slowly, I sit down on my bare mattress and carefully slide my fingers through the tape on the gi.
The wrapping paper falls away to reveal…
A painting. Of my old house. e white exterior and the sash windows and the front porch with a
swing, and… colorful sunflowers growing in the garden just underneath it, and…
My mom on the front lawn, gardening.
e most important part of the home, the exact memory I want to remember it by brought to life
by Blake.
Of course she knew.
My thumb traces her name scrawled onto the right corner, tears stinging my eyes. I sni, wiping
them away.
It’s perfect.
at night I carefully hang Blake’s painting on my eshell-white wall. It feels impossible for
everything to ever be like it was between us. But this feels like a start.
“at’s an awful nice painting,” a voice says from behind me. I turn around to see my dad leaning in
the doorway, a big wooden box tucked under his arm.