That's it! It's done! Well? What did you think? I hope you liked it as much as I did writing it. I am working on another, but then I may not have much out for a little bit. I have a lot of things going on in the next couple of weeks.

            A concert on Wednesday, an AP test next Friday, and two hours after I get home from that, I have to go back to school for another concert. Then a week after that, I'm going with my school up to Toronto for a music competition. See what I mean?

            But I will try to write more and I want to thank you guys so much. Every single one of you who reviewed, you guys are great! T.H, I can't wait to see how your story turns out, Kora, you're great! Race's-goil-only, finish that story! You know I love you all! There is no way I can thank you all here, but you guys know it! Thanks so much for your input.

            Here it is, the last part.

            A year almost passed before Race found himself in a small cemetery just north of the city. The noise and smells of the city faded as he walked the small country road, listening to things he never heard in his home. It had taken him one train hop and two rides on passing carts before he arrived.

            Jack had passed the offer, telling him it was something he needed to do alone, and told him how to get there.  And now Race stopped at the rusted iron gate.

            There wasn't a soul in sight, unless you counted the birds in the trees, or the cows in the field to his right. A slight breeze was blowing his hair about as he pulled off his cap and shoved it into his back pocket.

            There was something gentle and calming here, he could see why she loved it so. She had been there only once, Jack had said, on a picnic she had made just for the three of them, and she had told him, as her youngest son slept in her arms that she wanted to be buried in the quiet grove that reminded her of her home back in the old country.

            It was soso quiet, and so calming. He pushed the gate back and entered, eyeing the weather beaten gravestones. Some were leaning over, some still stood straight, some were bent and broken, some craved with intricate designs, flowers, or angels on top, peering down almost disapprovingly as he passed, others had crumbled until only a lump of rock remained, the name long gone. 

            But the one he was looking for might still be standing. The flowers in his hand, which he had scooped up along the way as a last minute idea, trembled as he searched through the barely visible path through the twisting mounds of earth and rock. 

            He carefully knelt and eyed each marker, trying to make out the faded writing on each one, and wondering, halfheartedly, if any of these people under him ever had folks like him come, reading their name and thinking about them.

            He passed a child, an unnamed man, a boy not unlike himself, an old couple, a young mother, all reduced to a name, a date, and a word or two. Rest in peace, with God.

            Finally he found what he was looking for. Tucked snugly away in the small corner by the old church, was a simple marker. There were no angels, no flowers, no signs of decoration. Only the words:

Marina Higgins May 13,186

June 1, 1889

Beloved Mother

            Race knelt in front of the grave, placing the flowers on the ground beside him. The grass grew wild and high here, making the marker seem even more ancient, though it was only ten years.

            "Hey Ma." He whispered. No one answered him, but he wasn't expecting an answer. He glanced at the smaller marker beside his mothers.  Then he shook his head, the girl had not even lived long enough to be named, only her dates were printed on the stone, with the words She is with God.

            "It's ova, Ma."  He said, turning his gaze back to the larger stone. "He's dead.   And not soon enough."
            Race sighed.  This was something he needed to do. He longed for a cigarette, or a cigar, or something to calm his nerves, but he had none. Besides, it couldn't be right to smoke in a cemetery.

            "Well, I guess I should tell ya dat Jack, or I guess ya would say Francis, is fine. He's got hisself a goil, nice one too. And, ah, youse woudda been prouda him, ma. Youse was right when ya said he was gonna do great tings. I jist wish ya coulda been dere."

            He smiled as the wind blew again, whistling only slightly. He sighed as the breeze whipped his hair back, and closed his eyes.

            "I wish I coulda done sumdin, Ma. Sumdin ta make ya come back, ta let Jack know how much he means ta me. He saved me life, Ma. Took me ta da hospt'l when Pop tried ta kill me, walkin' all da way from da bridge wid a busted ankle. Ya'd a been so prouda him, and maybe, " he whispered. "a me."

            A bird sang in the tree above him, and Race noticed his face was wet. He brushed at the tears, trying to stop them and failing.

            "Wouldcha be proud a me, Ma? I know I'se ain't da best, or da smartest, but I do play a mean game a poka, and I'se da best gambla in New York, if dat means anytin'. Don't tink so, but it's sumdin'. And I'se trying' ta be a good brudda, if dat counts."

            The bird stopped singing, and Race didn't notice. He only sat, staring at the marker, empty of feeling, or emotion, telling nothing of the woman whose name it bore. Empty and hollow, yet it gave just a bit of hope for a young boy who was searching for something even he wasn't sure of. Love maybe, forgiveness perhaps.

            "I miss ya, Ma. Moa den woids can really say, and I wish youse was heah ta tell me tings is gonna be alright.'

            But whatever it was he needed, Race found it in that gentle spring wind. The breeze blew by his ear, forming words only audible to the heart. And the voice, singing on the wind, an old song in an older language, the words blurred and distorted by age and wear, but the tune was unmistakable.

            Race got to his knees and gently picked up the withered flowers, the single rose he'd found on the bush, drooping and faded. It pierced his heart that he couldn't do better for her, couldn't even bring her proper flowers. But he had done his best and he hoped effort counted. He gently placed the small bundle of flowers on top of the gravestone, then got to his feet.

            He quietly made his way to the gate again, then turned back. The rose was spread out, fully bloomed on the headstone. Race smiled and closed the gate behind him, feeling full of something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time, and he set off for home, listening to the whistling wind. The wind that sang the songs of old and hinted at a promise of a better tomorrow.