40
Harlow
Ian stands next to the window in my room, looking out onto the backyard. His hair is combed flat, his expression haunted but beautiful. The snowy ground that blankets the ground outside reflects the light of the sun, bathing him in a titian glow. He wears a bespoke, black suit that matches my dress, his loafers polished.
I take one final glance in the oval mirror above my vanity. The black of my dress bleaches the color from my skin, and I look pale compared to the dark fabric. I see William in my reflection, our hair color so similar, our eyes the same clear blue, and it shatters my glass heart.
“Are you ready?” Ian asks. When did he walk over? His hand holds steady at the small of my back.
I nod, and my fingers find his easily. We walk downstairs hand-in-hand and out the door of my grandparents’ home.
Snow blankets the ground, the azaleas that bloom ruby red in the summer, and the tops of the manicured shrubs that line the sidewalk. Tree branches hang low to the ground, weighed down by the frost. I wrap my peacoat around me tighter, my breath blowing hot steam into the chilly air.
We continue off the patio, my heels clicking on the shoveled concrete. We pass my grandmother’s prize rose garden, the green house my grandfather spends most of his time in, and their heated pool. We keep walking until we reach the rocky cliffside overlooking the Atlantic.
The scent of saltwater hangs in the air. There’s a stage off to my left with white scaffolding and black curtains. There are floral arrangements everywhere to match William’s team colors, blue hydrangeas and white lilies. Photographs of William, blown up on tall easels, stand scattered around the area.
Smiling after his final win of the season, sophomore year.
At the beach, running full-speed ahead into the surf, his arms wide-open like he would gather the ocean in his hands.
Next to me, him laughing as I smiled at the camera, my violin in my hand and his piano standing behind us.
The photographs are beautiful, still shots of good memories, but they don’t do him justice.
Chairs line the edge of the cliff in long rows, and nearly every seat is full. A knot clogs my throat at the sight. Friends, family, his teammates, they are all here, even after all these months, even two weeks before Christmas.
Ian gives my hand a squeeze before he takes his reserved seat in the front row. I walk to stand at my mother’s side. My father stands beside her and my mother’s parents beside him. My father’s parents passed when we were in seventh grade, otherwise, I know they would be here too, tall and unfailing beside us.
The crowd goes quiet as my father steps in front of a lone microphone.
“This was my son’s favorite place on earth, though he only first visited this spring,” my father says, his voice soft and somber. “Today, we lay him to rest where I think he would’ve liked to be.” He looks to the sky, tears pooling in his eyes and spilling over. “You were taken from us too soon, William. I never imagined I would be here, without you, my boy.” He breaks off, sobbing quietly. My mother wraps her hands around his arm and squeezes him tight.
The knot inside my throat grows larger. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and fall.
After a moment, my granddad steps forward. He looks like he’s aged twenty years since I last saw him. His skin seems fragile, like papier-mâché stretched too tight. His big voice booms out over the crowd.
“Lois and I can’t thank you enough for being here. It would’ve meant the world to our grandson. We invite all of you to tell your favorite stories of William this evening, repeat his favorite jokes, and eat his favorite foods. We are not here to mourn his death, but to celebrate his life. At this time, we would ask his teammates from the Clinton County Cavaliers to join our granddaughter in sending our boy home.”
I step forward away from my family and walk toward my brother’s urn, which sits on a pedestal in front of the crowd. William’s coach stands from his seat, dressed in a faded black suit that looks freshly pressed. My hands glide over the stone, white marble with veins of pastel blue, a perfect match for William’s team colors.
For a fleeting moment as I pickup my brother’s urn and carry it away from the crowd toward the rocky cliffside, I really think it should be Blaze, not William’s coach, about to throw a final pitch in honor of my brother, but I haven’t seen Blaze in what feels like ages. Instead, Coach Bryant, a big guy with a round belly and a long beard, takes his place a few feet away from me as a member of William’s team stands from his seat, a bat in hand and takes his place in front of the crowd. Coach Bryant looks at me, tears glistening in his bright blue eyes, and nods.
I face the cliffs.
In my mind, I’m no longer there. I travel back to the spring, when William and I watched the waves crash into the rocky shore and stood there, doing absolutely nothing.
I can still feel the warmth of the sun heating my face, and the flick of William’s finger into my shoulder blade.
“Harlow,” he had said with a grin. “We can have epic parties at this place.”
I wrinkled my nose at him and laughed. “Can you ever take anything seriously?” I asked.
“You mean like talking about our feelings and stuff?”
I rolled my eyes. “You always were the dense twin.”
William chortled. “More like the fun one.”
I stared out at the water. “This place is beautiful,” I said.
“It’s all right.” William sat down on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest and stared right along with
