The day they went – two days after (Yang needed to get supplies) – was clear, save for a few thin whisps of white, and the sky was painted pale blue. Wind whipped across the empty landscape, almost eerie in its monotony. Gray and white headstones dotted the expanse in neat little rows, ordered and perfect, with pops of flowers scattered through them, each a different level of neglect. In the distance were the ornate grave markers, columns and obelisks in miniature.
Eli grumbled. He wished the weather had turned, and the clouds were dark and glowing with lightning. That there were more trees. That there was a mass grave just to add a bit of variety.
"Shall we?" Yang asked, a bucket of water and brushes in his hand, and a bag of papers and flowers and paint and food in the other.
The boy said nothing. He gestured for Yang to go first.
No doubt the hour-and-a-half drive to the cemetery had been an awkward, tense affair. Matthew expected that. He expected that neither would say anything during that whole drive, and the moment they got out of the car, Eli would be rearing and ready to go. He warned Yang about that before they left, and Matt wouldn't be surprised when he found out the man did nothing to remedy the situation.
The cemetery was too neat and manicured for Elliot's tastes. He wrinkled his nose at the neatness, the sparseness of visible history and decay. "What a boring place for a zombie apocalypse to start," he sighed, making sure to say it quiet enough that his uncle didn't hear him.
Yang did but said nothing.
The gravestone they were searching for was a ten-minute walk from the entrance, down the single-lane road and away from, what felt like, civilization. Around them were decrepit industrial parks, homes older than World War II, and then empty space.
"That's what I'm talking about," Eli whispered.
When they finally did reach the tombstone, Yang put down the brushes and bucket and bag and kneeled before it, his hands gently curled so his fingertips touched his palms. The grave was relatively clean considering how infrequently people visited, though Yang probably assumed it was due to his parents, however performative it was. "Still," he whispered, bowing his head, muttering Chinese under his breath.
Eli tapped his foot. "I don't know Chinese, Uncle Jun."
"It isn't a prayer," he said softly. "It's me apologizing. For missing the Festival."
"Oh." The boy shuffled beside his uncle, mirroring his seated position, and bowed his head.
"You do not have to apologize, Elliot."
"We missed the Festival, though."
"You have this up every year."
"You always take it down every year."
Yang shuddered.
Eli must've known he'd pushed a button. He said nothing. He leaned over, staring at the collection of items his uncle brought along. "So we're cleaning the grave. What's the paint for?"
Yang touched the carved lettering. "I never liked that the tombstone was so...plain. I know your mother would not have liked it, either."
"She wouldn't," Eli agreed.
The older man huffed. "Not at all." He stood, brushing down his pants. "We clean, first." He grabbed a brush and started wiping down the moss in the nooks and crannies.
They two cleaned in relative silence, taking turns pouring water and scrubbing. By the time they were finished, the stone gleamed like granite. Elliot arranged the flowers along the base. Yang folded the metallic papers into tiny ingots and set out a candle to burn. He pressed the paint into his nephew's hands and asked him to paint the letters; he picked a beautiful red.
Eli brushed the first letter, not breathing. He pulled away, staring at his handiwork. "Do you think they're rich? Wherever they are?"
The older man sighed, watching as he stuck the paper into the fire. "I hope so. I burned almost a thousand of these at their first Qingming Festival."
"You did?"
Yang nodded. He watched the paper burn between his fingers. He dropped it before it touched his skin."You were not there. You were in school. I wanted to pull you out, but your grandparents had...other ideas. Thought it was too soon. Thought you were not ready to deal with this."
Eli turned away, finishing his mother's name in the minute that followed. He looked around at the other tombstones, sparse in their decoration, before he asked, "Is this even allowed? Painting on here?"
"Probably not," Yang said, "though I doubt anyone will have any qualms with you painting your own family's headstone."
He stopped. He spun the paintbrush in his hand and offered it to his uncle. "Your turn."
Yang took the brush. He finished half of John's name before he gave up. He did not have the same finesse as his nephew did.
Eli burned a couple pieces of joss paper. He took back the paintbrush. "You suck at this."
"Painting was not in my school's curriculum." He probably could not recall if it was, either. "I took calligraphy."
"Did Grandma and Grampa tell you to?"
Yang did not answer him.
Eli finished filling in his father's name before starting their middle names. "I miss them."
"So do I."
"...do you?" Eli eyed his uncle.
"Yes. I think about them. I think about the last thing I said to them. It haunts me."
The boy stopped. He turned to Yang. "What did you say?"
YOU ARE READING
It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins
General Fiction[A Slice-Of-Life LGBTQ+ Story about Found Family] Matthew Robinson's career as a teacher seemed to have stalled, yet when the winds in the East suddenly lands him in the employ as a nanny, Matthew realizes he's probably signed up for more than he ba...
