Ah, Christine. Hair the color of a field of strawberries, and skin white as cream. My ears always delighted in her lilting English accent, honeyed by, I presumed, growing up in Yorkshire. Her bright blue eyes would sweep the room, quickly taking in the surroundings. Never missing a detail, nor overlooking a need, she would sweep by. Her passage marked by the scent of rose soap, forever fetching a morsel for my visit.
The dull, styled hair lay formed around her face. Concerns and cares a distant memory. Her skin, once transcendent, is now waxy and cold. Eyes forever shut did not see the tears in the mourners’ eyes.
I let my eyes wander to her arms before catching myself. No, I don’t want to see the needle marks.
The fruit has fallen from the vine. The cream has soured.
I turned away. My best friend in all this world sat to next to his sister. Stoney silent, he stared blankly.
My heart aches, a dull echo of the faded trumpets.
Welcome to the brotherhood of motherless sons.