Midnight, finger tapping my shoulder.

Fortress under my blankets. Helpless tears slip down his cheeks.

“They hate me, Momma,” he whispers, voice cracking. What can I say to that?

You are not bound by gravity, my son.

“Why am I so weird?” His question is broken, tentative. Saying it aloud makes it more real than it was before.

“Some people are just born different, baby.”

“Are you different, Momma?” What an innocent question.

“Yes,” I say, voice sticking. So I repeat myself. “Yes, I am.”

During our European escapades my brother was the fourth cavalier, so we are retracing our trip of a lifetime: Oslo, Paris and Tuscany; Ljubljana and Granada.

Back in England, my wife welcomes us before we leave for the final destination: Bibury, the most beautiful village in England.

She makes steaming mugs of tea and we toast my friend, my brother, tears welling in our eyes. Then it is time to move, and I pick up the caddy.

It’s empty. He’s gone.

My wife is ashen-faced.

A cold breeze sends shivers down his spine while he silently fights back tears. His grief-stricken heart is infuriated by Mother Nature’s cruelty.

He still hears echoes of his wife’s pleas to rescue their child from nature’s wrath. Ruthless in stealing her, now this cold cave is blessed with his wife’s beautiful soul.

I tossed the pillow at her, and white fluffy stuffing went flying. We both giggled as we bounced on the bed in our pjs until Mom came in.

“Enough, girls,” she said, smiling. “Time for bed.”

We lay our pillows down and panted, holding hands. “Best friends for life?” she asked, hooking her pinky in mine. I nodded.

The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her ‘big day’ were not a sign of consent.

The lashes fell upon her, one, two…

She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother’s choice.

His voice was loud it silenced her lips.
Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She’d later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.

She told Sammy how dearly she missed him. How her life lacked happiness, excepting visits from grandchildren.

They would’ve delighted seeing him. But it was different for them. They lived elsewhere in town. Their lives filled with interests young people sought.

Only when Rose died did her grandchildren realize her loneliness. Close to the burial ground, hidden under debris, they uncovered a stash of cigarette ends.

She had been joyfully preparing to tell him the wonderful news. She cooked a special dinner and waited for his return from work. She opened the bedroom window, breathed in the fresh spring air, and watched the passersby. A group of people gathered near a stopped buggy. Tears rolled down her cheek. There had been no mistake. It was his still body.

“Hi, we’re the new foster parents. Are the little ones ready?”

The woman who opened the door has tears in her eyes.

“You’re early.”

“We were anxious to see them.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

“Um… certainly, madam.”

“I’ll get my husband.”

A man comes to the door, carrying a basket and then handing it over.

“Is everything all right with the missus? She seems a bit upset. She IS aware we will end up eating them, right?”

“Sssst. No need to remind her of that.”

His toothy grin, unkempt hair, and the obnoxious Rolling Stones t-shirt brought a smile to her face. She had forgotten how goofy he could be when taking a photo. He had the complete inability to be serious when a camera was pointed at him. The various ridiculous poses and his exaggerated grins came to mind and made her chuckle to herself.