(46) those lost

“Hey.”

Steve jerked and looked behind him to see Chrys coming up on his left among the tombstones.

She sat down, a bottle nestled in between her legs. “This grandpa?”

A nod, “Yeah. I thought… someone should come.” He’d been there for awhile already, just sitting and thinking.

The graveyard was pretty overgrown already, full of weeds and flowers and bird nests, but Steven still did his best to clear away some headstones. Even though the nature would eventually overcome it all, he still thought they should be clear for now.

Steve gave his sister a disapproving look, nodding his head towards the bottle. “You know you’re not drinking that, right?” The paper bag covering the label hadn't fooled him.

She rolled her eyes, but still handed it to him without much fuss. “It’s not for us.”

Oh.

She produced two tiny cups from her pockets, then placed both on the stone before them. Even after they filled them, however, there was still a lot of alcohol left in the bottle.

Steven shifted the bottle in his hands back and forth a little before he wordlessly took a swig and offered the bottle to Chrys.

After that, they sat in silence.

Steve thought about how the word would move on after they died.

Chrys didn’t speak again until the sun had started to slide past the horizon. “I miss them.”

Steve took her hand in his and held it tight. He remembered when she was first born, when his mother told him and his brothers to be careful with her. Chrys was still too small, too fragile. Steven had taken her tiny hand then, held it as gently as he could.

Baby Chrys had held on like his hand was a lifeline. Adult Chrys, it seemed, was doing the same.

“I miss them too.”