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Poppy
Shouldn't it have been raining?
I manage to roll my eyes as I tip my head up in disgust and look at the clear sky. Why aren't the heavens crying? The bright sun suggests the angels are rejoicing over welcoming another angel.
Come on, God, at least set the proper mood for me today!A furious storm with thunder roaring like my inner chaos, lightning slashing the sky, preferably striking me down so I could be with my brother again.
I wanted rain so fewer people would come. That sounds bad. Let me explain. Funerals are fake; the grief of these strangers only makes reality seem more bizarre and surreal. I remember my parents' funeral; so many came to pay their respects. I only knew about ten people, and out of those ten, only half mattered.
Shouldn't funerals be a time of respect? Just let the family be alone to mourn.
I look around. I just want to be alone. What I want to do is lay on the ground beside my family and dig my fingers into the dirt that has been disturbed to dig yet another grave.
Maybe that's why so many come—to keep me alive but suffering with the memories.
I blink, and it's done. The service is complete, and workers who look bored and severely underpaid shovel soil onto the coffin.
How much does a soil shoveler get paid to bury a loved one?
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Maybe my mind's way of coping is by asking such ridiculous questions.
In the distance, people murmur as they leave the gravesite and make their way to Harper's house, where the reception will be. They will never come back here again. Peter is about to turn into a memory.
With a deep inhale, I take in all the details I can. The scent of freshly cut grass and the warmth of the sun seeping into the fabric of my black dress made me feel like one of those TV dinners you pop into a microwave, the ones where you only peel back a corner of the plastic so the steam can cook the food. If you peel back the entire cover, everything will explode. Just peel away a corner and take everyone I love away from me slowly so I can survive.
There’s a small patch of weeds with pretty white flowers at the base of the oak tree behind the graves. How old is that tree? For how many years, decades, or even centuries has it been tormented by people's cries?
I look to the left of my feet and then to the right. Henry and Peter once stood there, holding my hand at our parents' funeral. I open my hand, extending my fingers, half expecting theirs to slip between mine.
Nothing happens.
I stretch them wider, feeling only the stale air—no warmth of a human or coldness of a ghost. Still, nothing.
Henry isn't here. He didn't show up to his own twin's funeral. I can't blame him when the murderer is standing at the foot of the grave.
I have no idea where he is. The only family I have left is before me, under the soil. I want to join them, but if they could hear my inner thoughts, they would be furious. So, I keep it to myself.
Bury it deep…just like they are.
A throat clears right as a shadow covers me.
Is it the Grim Reaper? Did he hear my thoughts?
My eyes pivot to see the last person I want to see.Thanks a lot, Reaper. You never show up when I need you.
My spine stiffens as I shift my eyes away and look down at my old pair of white Converse shoes. Henry got Peter and me a matching pair last Christmas. Now, we will never all match again.
The newcomer hates these shoes.
I smile.
Andrew exhales, “You made a mistake, Poppy.” he states as he looks from side to side.
Yes, I did; the first was dating you.
Andrew steps closer, making sure we are alone, and I smell his cologne over the grass scent now. I part my lips and only breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to smell it.
It's just us and the gravestones. I look at the etched letters that carve out my mother's name. It's a serif font, so it looks classically elegant. Peter's gravestone isn't finished yet. It usually takes a few months to complete a gravestone. A fact I wish I didn't know.
