THE LONG ROAD HOME: Norma Strait’s First Visit in 39 Years
The first time Norma Strait returned to the small cemetery in San Marcos, Texas, thirty-nine years had passed. The morning air was still, brushed with the soft October light her daughter had once adored — the kind that seemed to linger gently over the Texas hills.
In her hand, Norma carried a bouquet of wildflowers — daisies, bluebonnets, and tiny sprigs of lavender — and a folded photograph of a smiling little girl with ribbons in her hair. The paper was worn, edges frayed from time and touch, yet the face upon it remained untouched by the years: Jenifer, the daughter she had loved beyond words and lost far too soon.
She knelt beside the headstone, her knees pressing against the cool earth.
The inscription was simple, timeless:
JENIFER LYNN STRAIT — October 6, 1972 – June 25, 1986.
Her fingers, trembling, traced the carved letters as if to memorize them anew. “It’s been so long, baby,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, fragile. “But Mama never stopped thinking of you. Not one day.”
The breeze shifted then, soft as a sigh, stirring the leaves above and carrying the faint hum of a familiar melody — George’s voice drifting from the open car window just a few yards away. He was singing, almost to himself, an old song that still felt alive: “You Look So Good in Love.”
For a moment, Norma closed her eyes, letting the sound wrap around her. Time folded in on itself. She could see it — Jenifer twirling barefoot in the yard, her laughter ringing through the summer air; the family packed into the car for Sunday drives, George humming behind the wheel, Jenifer leaning between the seats to ask for “one more song.”
The ache in Norma’s chest swelled, then softened. A butterfly — pale gold and blue — fluttered through the sunlight and landed gently on the corner of the photograph resting beside the flowers.
Norma smiled through her tears. “I know,” she whispered. “You’re still here.”
The air was quiet again, but not empty. There was peace in the silence — not the kind that isolates, but the kind that heals. She stayed a while longer, talking softly to her daughter, telling her about the grandchildren, the ranch, the songs, and how proud her daddy would always be.
When she finally rose to leave, she looked back one last time. The butterfly had not moved. The wildflowers swayed faintly in the breeze, glowing in the autumn light.
And as Norma walked toward the car, George’s voice rose once more — low, tender, and weathered by time — singing a line that carried across the quiet Texas field:
“Darlin’, you look so good in love…”
For the first time in thirty-nine years, the silence didn’t hurt.
It healed.
And in that sacred stillness, Norma knew — love had never really left. It had simply learned how to stay.