Two young men stood beside the doorway as people dressed much like them flowed through the house. The two brothers wore black, a color they’d been told looked good on them despite their drastic visual differences. The eldest was tall and muscular with brown hair that had been combed to the side. The younger was shorter and paler than he with black hair that had been combed similarly.
Every few minutes, someone would approach them. They’d wear a small smile and would tell them how sorry they were and how it never should have happened. And everytime they said that, Sawyer would nod and thank them. And when they’d walk away, Vincent would think to himself how wrong they were and how they had no reason to be sorry.
There was one woman, a friend of Sawyer’s, who came up to them. She wore the biggest and blackest dress with a feathered hat that sat on top of her red hair. She held Sawyer’s hands and told him that if there was anything they ever needed, to call her and she would take care of it. Then she extended her gloved hand to Vincent and said the same applies to him. Vincent thought her vague words to be empty.
Occasionally, someone would ask them where their mother was. With a soft expression Sawyer would tell them that she had fallen ill and chose to stay in their home on the coast until the service was over. That was a lie. Their mother was a woman who was forever absent, but not forgotten.
When Vincent looked around the room, he saw bodies draped in black milling about his home painted in color. He couldn’t wait to see them all gone so he could leave this house and run away to another. He didn’t live here, he loitered here.
Vincent was soon following Sawyer out into the garden. They each grabbed a drink and were soon invited into a circle of people older than them. They took turns answering questions about themselves and the house.
A young man ran up behind Vincent and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around he saw that it was Brady, his younger brother who had recently grown to be almost as tall as he. Brady was facing away from him, towards the house.
“What is it?” Vincent asked softly.
“Mom’s here.”
Vincent’s expression dropped and he looked over Brady’s head to the house. He could see people moving inside. It was not with the sway they had before. They were bunched together, some still and others hurrying around the swarm.
A woman dressed in black paraded out the french doors, one was already open, but a young man ran ahead and opened the other for her and her guests. They emerged out of the house like a fog. They settled at a white metal table where the woman collapsed. Her close friends and sisters knelt at her side with cloth tissues. They held her hands and dabbed at her face, but when Vincent squinted, he found that her cheeks were dry.
The three brothers watched her. Those around them were stiff and silent. Most would crumble at the sight of their mother crying at their father’s funeral.
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