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, from growing up in Yorkshire. Bright blue eyes swept the room, quickly taking in the surroundings. Never missing a detail or overlooking a need. She would sweep by, trailed by the scent of rose soap, forever fetching a morsel for my visit.

I blinked.

The dull, styled hair lay formed around her face. Concerns and cares a distant memory. Her skin, once transcendent, was 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.

Why Christine?

The fruit has fallen from the vine. The cream has soured.

I turned away. My best friend in all this world sat 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.