Every Bright and Broken Thing

6 Years Ago - Ezra

The rain fell that day. Hard and fast. I should've been at my graduation, but instead I was at my mother's funeral. The grass beneath our feet turned to mud with every second that passed. The wind howled as if to grieve along with me. I struggled to hold onto the umbrella as the storm threatened to rip it from my grip.

Dry, empty, I had no tears left to cry. Nothing was left. Nothing but grief. Nothing...

Dad stood to my right and Liam to my left. My little brother. Only ten-years-old and already far too acquainted with loss. A pastor friend of ours led the ceremony as Mom's casket rested above her grave. The thought of her there, buried six feet in the dirt made me sick. I resisted the urge to vomit.

And suddenly, as if I'd never noticed before how upside down everything was here, this town felt much too small. I never had a chance to tell Mom that I got into the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. It would've made her so happy to know. She always believed in my art even though I barely believed in it myself. But now she was gone. And I never got to tell her.

They lowered her casket into the earth and Dad led the way to the mound of dirt beside the grave. His face was strong, stoic, still. There was no tremor there, but I wondered what hid underneath. Did he think he had to be strong? For us?

In the palm of his hand, he carried a small mound of dirt and with a deep, long inhale he dropped it. The dirt scattered across the polished black exterior – the only barrier now between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

I moved next, the lump that formed in my throat now caught and I nearly choked. My lips tightened as I reached for the dirt and scooped up a handful. The finality of this moment filled my heart with lead; I was burying my own mother. And there was something very wrong, very upside down about that.

The dirt in my hand, I was unable to move. I stared for a long time, careless of the stares of the small audience around me. This was my grief. I refused to allow them to rush me or pressure me to move. If I were to move it would be on my own.

What's left? I wondered, not realizing that I'd whispered it to myself.

With my free hand, I wiped my eyes and moved toward the grave. I dropped the dirt on top of the casket and briefly pictured Mom's decaying body.

Nothing.

Nothing's left.