I would catch him sometimes, early mornings or late at night after a run, standing in this same spot, and I knew what he said was true.
Back in the present, I look back over my shoulder to Coach Bryant and tip my head. He throws the ball, and with the crack of the bat, I remove the top of my brother’s urn and scatter his ashes, watching as they are carried away by the briny wind and the rolling waves.
My mom cries beside me, and before I realize it, I am crying too.
My grandfather steps forward, addresses the crowd once more, but I don’t hear his words. My attention is now on the stage, and the videos that play there against a theater screen.
There’s William laughing. He’s five years old, wearing a bucket on his head, and calling himself, “bucket boy.”
He’s winning the county spelling bee in seventh grade.
He’s next to me at the talent show he roped me into freshman year, dancing like a lunatic while I butcher my way through Can’t Touch This by MC Hammer.
I float among the memories.
I lose count of the number of hugs I give.
I smile and laugh and cry and do it all over again.
Through it all, Ian is there beside me. He never says it’ll be all right, and I think it’s because he knows it can never be all right again.
I stand away from the mingling crowd, munching on a bowl of Froot Loops bathed in chocolate milk, one of William’s favorites. One of mine too. Ian returns from having been dragged off somewhere with my grandfather.
“How are you holding up, sweetness?” He brushes a kiss across my shoulder and dips his head against the side of mine.
My gaze lands on him. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”
“Memorial services aren’t really new relationship things.”
He takes my bowl and sets it on the table. He grabs my hands, which are swallowed by his own.
“I don’t give a fuck what societal standards tell me are normal,” he says. “I care what feels right, and it feels right being here with you.” He kisses the top of my head. I want to crawl into his arms and curl up there. “I was stupid, and I lost you once. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
There are so many words I want to say, but the knot lodged at the back of my throat stops them all.
Ian looks down at me, “Your grandfather asked that we do something for William.” He looks to the stage and nods at my grandfather. The videos of William stop, and the screen retracts. Behind it, there’s William’s piano and my barstool and a violin.
“Will you join me on stage?”
I nod. He guides me to the stage, and by the time we arrive, tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill over. My hand runs over the violin. It’s a darker stain than the one Grandma and Granddad got me, and when I look closer, I see that dark roses have been painted on the wood and shine underneath the gloss.
“I can’t bring it back,” he says, “but hopefully I can give you another.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. People are starting to look at the stage, the hum of the crowd going soft.
“I understand,” Ian says, “there’s a song you and William played at a certain birthday party.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Sounds like it was a good time.”
“It was the best of times,” I agree with a grin.
“Will you play it with me?” he asks.
I nod. His lips graze the top of my forehead and he waves off-stage. There’s a tall guy I recognize from my old school and another with a lip ring William used to hang out with who’s holding an electric guitar. He hooks it up to the amp, and the speakers hum.
“Go get ‘em,” Ian whispers in my ear, and I realize that my family isn’t going to save me. I step close to the microphone, and when I hear myself breathing through the speakers, I take a big step back.
“Hey,” I say to the crowd, clutching my violin tight in one hand and my bow in my other. “We’re going to play a song for you that my brother loved. This is for him.”
Not the best introduction, I think, but William wouldn’t have cared.
Ian sits at the piano, watching me as I take my seat at the front of the stage. The guy on the drums raises his drumsticks above his head and clicks out a beat. Ian begins on the piano, joined by William’s friend on the electric guitar. I take a moment to skim the music. It looks written for us, written for a quartet.
Just before I raise my bow, I see my dad looking at the stage, smiling broadly. William’s friends from the baseball team, crowded around tables in a far corner, cheer.
I join in with what was originally written for a guitar. One of William’s friends shouts “WHOO! Metallica!” from the back, and laughter ripples through the crowd.
I’m trying to not laugh as I play. I’m trying to hold my violin straight and hit the notes, but then William’s teammates begin a tone-deaf rendition of Enter Sandman at the top of their lungs.
When the guitar takes over, I look out into the crowd for a brief moment and catch a glimpse of my great aunt shaking her head in horror, my mom laughing next to my dad as she points out William’s teammates, who now stand, their arms wrapped around each other as they belt out the lyrics. Even Grandma’s into it, tapping her foot to the beat as she smiles up at the stage.
My gaze returns to the sheet of music in front of me, and I am lost in the energy of it all, swirling around me and sucking me under. William would have loved this. He was obsessed with old-school
