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Are his lungs as tight as mine are?
Probably not. Henry does more cardio than I do. Well, he always did in the past.
I press my lips together and wait for him to move.Go on, Henry, move. Open the door.
He might be my older brother, but sometimes someone older and more hardened needs a helping hand.
Slowly, I unbuckle; the click makes the hairs on my arms rise. I touch the door handle and glance at my brother. Our eyes meet, he nods, and then we do what we should have done long ago.
***
Blood-red spray paint is streaked on rows of graves. The site manager said it happens from time to time. Kids dare each other to do it, thinking it will provoke ghosts.
Ignoring the paint, Henry and I walk to our family’s places. There’s a maintenance man trying hard to scrub off the paint from Peter’s gravestone. When Henry told the manager we were coming today, he said they’d work on our families' headstones first.
The maintenance man is hunched over, wearing a grey shirt and a huge sunhat, the kind you see men wearing when they're on an island. His bright yellow gloves reach his elbows and move with vigor and force as he tries to get rid of the paint. A bright blue bucket is by his side, and a stiff-looking brush makes a slight scraping sound as he scrubs the polished stone.
Henry and I were advised to stay a few feet back, but even from this distance, we could smell the fumes from the paint remover. At least the man cleaning the paint is wearing a proper mask to protect himself.
I grasp the flowers in my hand, not ready to set them down. That would make this real.
I try to take in the details of today as I make a new memory; it’s both happy and sad. Henry’s with me; we’re here together. There’s a bird chirping and a slight breeze in the air. I imagine my parents sent that bird to sing so we’d feel them.
“What do you think Mom, Dad, and Peter would think of us now?” I blurt out.
I can’t stand the silence. It feels like a rash spreading.
I wait for Henry to reply as I watch the maintenance man keep trying to scrub off the paint. I’m tempted to tell him to leave it. We can just buy another headstone. Peter would hate to watch someone labor over this.
“I think they would each think something different,” Henry replies heavily. “Mom would be heartbroken for our relationship.” His hazel eyes look at her grave. There’s only a little splash of red paint on it.“She’d be furious with me.”
I swallow.“She’d be happy now.” I look at the stone meant to represent my mother. The only thing similar to her is that serif font. It’s elegant and classic, like Mom. Her hair was never out of place, and her makeup was simple yet flawless. She was so pretty. I always wanted to be like her when I grew up.
Henry nods, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.“I think Dad would disown me, and I think Peter would bury me alive in his grave.” He replies quickly as if his words are fire, burning the tastebuds off his tongue.
Nothing tastes the same after death.
Oh boy. That was painful to hear.
I asked for it. I needed to hear it to help me heal.
“How do you think they would react to how we acted?” Henry questions.
“I think, like you, mom would cry, then she’d lecture us how our terrible decision has caused her early onset wrinkles.” I try to smile.“I think that dad would, well, I think he would cry too because no parent wants to see their kids fighting. Dad would have forced us into a room until we talked again.”
“What about Peter?” He whispers. I hear the sorrow in his tone when he says his twin’s name.
Glancing down, I looked into the black heart of the poppy flowers. My heart felt like that—dead and dark. It doesn’t now. It’s beating, which at times feels more painful than when I felt numb.
“I think Peter wouldn’t judge us. He’d only care about healing us. He’d do what he did after Mom and Dad died. He’d be a Band-Aid. We lost our Band-Aid, and we bled out for a long time.”
“I wish I was like Peter,” Henry mutters.
“I don’t. I loved you each for different reasons.”
“Since you used the past tense, I’m gonna take it that you don’t love me anymore,” Henry utters sadly.“I can’t blame you. I haven’t loved myself for a long time either.” He discloses.
His confession makes me feel like we're both on the operating table, trying to be healed. Our hearts are cut open, laid bare, exposed to the cold, sterile air—the truths. It's invasive, necessary, and overwhelmingly raw.
