Losing Faith by Denise Jaden Page A

flowers, which scatter around him, and backs quickly behind an adjacent tree.
    I dazedly look behind me, wondering what spookedhim. Nothing. No one in the service seems to have moved a muscle.
    Staring in the direction of the tree where he disappeared, I drop my bag, check over my shoulder to make sure my parents are still occupied, and inch into the woods. But he’s not there, behind that tree. In fact, I don’t see him anywhere. Did he just vanish into thin air? I focus on a path through the trees, and when I’m out of sight of the burial group, I take off in a run.
    Soon the path fades into bushes and stumps, and I’m not sure which direction to head in. When I look around, I think I catch movement straight ahead. I pick up my pace again. I don’t even know what I’ll say if I find him, but now I need to. It feels like my sanity depends on it.
    Well into the forest, I take in my surroundings. Everything looks like it’s moving now. The rustling of leaves envelops me like surround sound. I make a false start, but then realize it’s only another gust of wind.
    “Hello,” I call out. “I just want to talk to you.”
    But there’s no response. It takes me several minutes to admit he’s gone, whoever he is. And if I don’t return soon, I’ll have no idea how to find my way back to the cemetery.
    My lungs ache after the jog back to Faith’s grave and I’ve questioned my muddled brain the whole way. Did I really see him?Maybe my mind was so desperate for distraction that I created a mirage of a hot guy. That makes more sense than anything.
    When I near the clearing, I slow down and peer around a tree until I’m sure no one will notice my reappearance. People are consoling my parents and the service must be finished.
    The sky has clouded over and I wish I’d brought a heavier sweater, but when my parents glance over and give me the look that it’s time to go, suddenly I’m not ready. I wasn’t here for the service and didn’t get a chance to think about what just happened. They’re burying my sister.
    People clear quickly, either from the cold or from the realization that my parents want this to be over. I get Dad alone and ask if he minds if I hang around a few minutes and catch a bus home. “I’ll be home before dark,” I add.
    I half expect him to say no, but he must be too emotionally exhausted. He nods, then leads Mom back toward their car.
    When the last car pulls away and I walk over to collect my backpack, I spot the carnations. They’re blowing around the perimeter of the cemetery. The boy was here. But he couldn’t have known Faith well if he brought full-bloom carnations. Flower buds were her favorite—didn’t matter what kind, as long as they were young flowers. The promise of new blossoms, she always said.
    I pick up each carnation and bring them over to Faith’s plot. Even in full bloom, Faith would want them. It’s tempting to keep thinking about the boy, keep wondering about him, but I don’t let myself.
    Faith’s gravestone isn’t up yet, but there’s a plaque propped up that emblazons the dates of her birth and death. They look like the expiration dates on a can of soup. Seventeen years doesn’t appear like nearly enough time for the life of a person. The rest of the flowers surrounding the plaque and atop the casket are barely buds. I keep my eyes from the lowered casket and distract myself by wondering if people will come down here to change the buds so they don’t bloom.
    Under the date and her name reads a simple Bible verse and I have to ask myself, Can’t anyone be a little bit original and come up with something other than Scripture to say something about her?
    I shake my head, suddenly realizing maybe this is what she would have wanted. Still, a part of me knows there was more to her than youth groups and Bible verses.
    Gnawing my lower lip, I read the verse. “He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your