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#burial mention
asbestieos · 1 year
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im actually glad im not ina discord server with my tumblr moots because you guys would wake up to shit like
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battlescarsh · 19 days
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I think birds should always be buried facing up, so they can forever look at the sky
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rhymesswith · 6 months
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And nothing else happens after this
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evakant · 1 year
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when you fail so hard to convince your brother to come home (you both cried btw) that it somehow turns into agreeing to put on a show to make everyone else think he defected (you won't be able to support/protect him any longer) and you literally have to take the deepest breath possible to steady yourself as you leave him to this hell he is trying to turn into a new home (without you!!!!) to go prepare for the fake fight:
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father-moss · 1 year
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The old and the youngling. 
About 7000 years ago, an ageing man in his 60s was buried at Skateholm, Sweden. Next to him, face to face, lays a child of 4-5 years who was buried later. On the child's chest lay jewelry made of bear teeth and pieces of amber. A beautiful display of love, and that the two belonged together in life as in death.
Photo: Statens historiska museer. 
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cadaverkeys · 7 months
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I do think there is this underhanded implication that even tho Joshua and Margret were doting and prepared parents they were also somewhat neglectful and possibly physically abusive at times. Finn probably wasn't quite as aware of the state of things because he aged much slower than his brothers.
There were lines shared among Jermaine and Jake that implied that their father was particularly authoritative and that they share a specific guilt around having to bury their father once he passed- which is notably not brought up with Margret's passing. A lot of this stuff is kind of. Under the surface or inferred but it interests me a lot- especially seeing Jermaine develop into an extremely dependable and responsible person and Jake becoming unable to process ideas of commitment and maturity.
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// mpreg , pregnancy
There’s something intensely hilarious and fitting about imagining a Wei Wuxian who, as Wei Wuxian does, finds a way to get himself pregnant, only to act like a Harvest Moon/Stardew Valley farmer and go about business as usual. Pregnant Wei Wuxian out in the fields tending to his crops as if nothing was different.
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the-ineffable-ace · 6 months
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Please stop scrolling and give me a minute of your time
This is Conner Ostricki. He was a classmate of mine. He unfortunately was a passenger in a car that got hit by a semi truck. He didn’t make it.
He was only 16 years old and he was a great person with a kind soul. His mother is trying to raise money to afford a proper burial for him.
Please donate if you can. Even if it’s just 1 dollar.
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meirimerens · 6 months
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you know i must have been bone-tired when this part of the herb brides lore didn't come to my mind when i discussed how the Kin fundamentally differs from the cultures it is inspired by um There Is The Human Sacrifice part. like it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you are doing human, or anthropomorphic (if you want to see the Herb Brides as closer to spirits, which comes with its own set of problematics regarding how to approach their oppression) sacrifice. it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you kill a woman, as part of the journey and in direct resonance with you ritualistically killing cattle earlier, and she offers herself to you with cultural and religious significance.
human sacrifices have been done across the globe for millennia, but i cannot, for the life of me, find any source at all that mentions the Buryats (since that was the discussion point) partaking in human sacrifices by the turn of the 19th-early 20th century (or even anything past the 16th). every single source mentioning offerings and sacrifices i've read mentions animals, things such as milk and vodka, and often both at once. would love to read anything about these rituals if papers exist, but i'm personally drawing a blank.
the Kin has Obvious and very Visible influences but it also differs from specific (in this discussion's case, the Buryats) or wider (here, turkic/mongolic as a whole) cultures from the area by so many pieces, big and small, that i wouldn't have enough appendages on my whole body to count them all. and sister. i have plenty of appendages.
#i AM reading a paper that mentions the human sacrifices at Mongol burials where people (typically servants or family) would be sacrificed#to accompany the dead; as well as the Shor practice of sacrificing women/girls (replaced apparently quickly by sacrificing ducks)#but those seem pretty old [the Mongol part mentions the 13th century] & like. nothing about the buryats in that time period#i'm like 85% sure i saw in the beginning of being into patho someone saying how equating the Kin; who practice human sacrifices [& others]#to correlate/be meant to represent Real Life ethnicities is insulting because They Don't Do That.#and like. everythingggg that touches upon representation/appreciation/appropriation/theft is subjective and#informed my how much leeway you're willing to give the creators so that's like#bro i'm just reading PDFs#also just found out the discussion of ''The Kin Is Obviously Inspired But Not Meant To Represent [x]'' is over 2yrs old. we're still at it.#as anon said. ''unless you're tolkien; coming up with a whole fictional language is hard''.#anyways appendage time. stuff that differs just out of the top of my head:#everything relating to the religion which is almost a complete inverse of buryat tengrist/shamanic faith + don't get me started on buddhism#the clothes. the homes. the creation myths; beyond the apparition of Clay; which is present in so many cultures on earth#no swan ancestor. no lake worship. no sky/heavens. no tens of named hierarchical deities. NO BURBOT! no hats. no hats (burts into tears)#NO HORSES? ON THE EURASIAN STEPPE?#the belief that earth mustn't be cut is so buryat. i'm sure i've read it. no idea if it is also in other mongolic peoples but buryat it is.#also a bull-ancestor/bull totem. that exists in buryat tribes; but they also have a bunchhhhh of other sacred animals (including. swans.#also horses. there's this [charm?] made out of horse hair there is)#neigh (blabbers)#i'm realizin how crazy i sound repeating shit that has been said 2yrs ago but like someone already mentioned the human sacrifice.#someone already mentioned the clothes. someone already mentioned the yurts/gers. someone already mentioned the religion#like i'm just. repeating stuff. and yet. give it up for year 2
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queern-bn · 7 months
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Game Review: A Mortician's Tale
As a healthcare practitioner who works with palliative clients and their families, I've developed an interest in death care over the years. The Order of the Good Death, an organization of death-positive morticians and other death care workers, shared a post on Instagram about death-positive video games, so I decided to try one that looked interesting to me. This is quite a departure from my usual content, but stick with me!
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About the Game
A Mortician's Tale by Laundry Bear Games cost $11.49 CAD on Steam, and took me about 40 minutes to play through (though I'm a fast reader. The game was released in October 2017, and has received mostly positive reviews.
Taken from the game's Steam page: A Mortician's Tale is a story-driven death positive video game where you play as a mortician tasked with running a funeral home. Take on the role of recent funeral direction graduate Charlie as she learns the ropes of the business and industry. Prepare the bodies of the deceased (via embalming or cremation), attend their funerals and listen to their loved ones' stories, and interact with Charlie's coworkers, clients, and bosses.
⚠️ Content warnings for A Mortician's Tale: discussion of death, depiction of animated blood, death care procedures, discussion of suicide (no graphic imagery or descriptions), mention of alcohol, mild language.
Setting
The game mainly takes place in two rooms: the mortuary and the funeral chapel. All death care tasks are performed in the mortuary, which is separated into areas for embalming, cremation, processing of cremated remains, and a desk space to receive instructions via email for the day. The funeral chapel has space for a viewing to take place (or for the casket/urn to sit) and areas for funeral attendees to congregate.
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Gameplay
The game is separated into short chapters. In each, Charlie the mortician receives an email from her boss with her task for the day: preparation of a body and embalming, or cremation and processing of cremated remains. Each task comes with written instructions and on-screen prompts for how and when to perform them.
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After the body has been prepared or cremated, Charlie will attend the funeral and have a chance to speak with/listen to the decedent's family and friends. Each person has a unique comment or story to share which give you as the player an opportunity to explore the different ways that people process grief.
General thoughts & highlights
I loved the diversity of situations that the game explores in terms of storyline. Some of the cases you will take on include:
A sudden, unexpected death
An accidental death
The expected death of a terminally ill person
The death of a person who had a tenuous and distant relationship with their family
Current issues in Western death care were also explored, such as the purchasing of independent funeral homes by large corporations who jack up prices and demand that morticians prioritize sales over grieving families. All of the cases in the game involve adults, but if you read through the other emails, you'll notice one from the new owner mentioning that they now have exclusive rights for the care of all the hospital's fetal remains (i.e. stillbirths) — a difficult task mortician Caitlin Doughty discusses in her book Smoke Gets In Your Eyes & Other Lessons from the Crematory.
I appreciated all the little details that were included to make things more realistic, such as the need to remove a pacemaker before cremation, setting jewellery aside to put in the urn once the ashes are processed, and keeping the little metal ID tag with the body starting from the time they go into the retort, and ending with the tag going into the urn with the ashes.
I also think the game's creators did a good job of portraying the realities of death and death care respectfully without being overly graphic. One of the people Charlie is asked to prepare is a young person who died by suicide. Providing death care for this person is optional, and for those who indicate they don't feel comfortable with the situation, they are redirected to a mini-game as an alternative.
Final Impression
Overall, I'd describe A Mortician's Tale as short and dark, but offers plenty of food for thought. The game covers some heavy topics, so if you choose to try it out, be aware of that and read the content warnings I mentioned above. I really enjoyed it, and would have happily played for longer had more aspects of death care such as hair and makeup been available for players to do, or more scenarios.
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bonefall · 1 year
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Bone what herbs should be used for a funeral
(CONTENT WARNING: DEATH AND DEAD BODIES. DECAY. BLOAT. STINK. MAGGOTS, EVEN. MORTUARY THINGS.)
Quick answer: Fennel, valerian, catmint, so the mourners can still safely 'share tongues.' Mint/Lavender if the body isn't looking so fresh. Vinegar, salt, herb oil, a very creative flower arrangement if it's yikesy.
Mortuary student answer:
Depends really, what state did they find the body in?
If they died in-camp, then they can just use any nice-smelling herb. The remains won't be stinking unless they were already smelling bad when they were alive.
At this stage I would avoid the canonical lavender and mint, since it's shown that they like to "share tongues" with them one last time. Those two herbs are poisonous! Instead, go with fennel, valerian, and catmint if there's enough to spare. Fragrant flowers that can still be consumed without harming the mourners.
Now if they died away from camp? They might have been laying there a while.
Generally after about 2-ish hours, the corpse will be in rigor mortis (depends on the temperature tho, heat speeds up decay). At this point there's no smell, and they can be brought home and mourned just like a cat who died in the camp.
You can expect the body to stay fresh about 1 - 3 days, depending again on the season, but you're gonna start noticing the belly begin to bloat.
And THIS is where you're going to have bigger problems to patch up, and you're gonna smell it before you see it.
The biggest one is going to be the maggots. There is no getting around this; a forest is full of flies. A single day after a fly lays its eggs, you will see the little noodles doing their little noodly things.
They're doing their job breaking down organic matter is all!
No need to be afraid of them. If the body needs to be stored because you're pending a funeral, just bust out those mint and lavender herbs I told you to put aside earlier. Those are insect repellents-- but it will mean they can't do the customary 'sharing of tongues.' Chives and other onion-relatives could also be helpful here
If the maggots are already having a party, clean them off. I mention that ShadowClan can ferment vinegar-- that would be super helpful. Just take a mossball of it and wipe lmao. They want to set up shop near orifices and exposed wounds so pay attention to those areas.
The vinegar will also help with the smell, if there is one (if you found the maggots after they JUST hatched, about 1 day post-mortem, there might not be a stink yet.)
But you might be past just dealing with a couple maggots. You might be looking at decay. In a cat with all that fur, you're going to notice the rotten smell before any visible symptoms... but when moved, the side towards the ground's going to be wet and gross. Probably ant-y.
First visible symptoms are fur starting to fall off, bloated belly, the eyes might be gone.
Now if you're dealing with that, you're pushing it. It's probably going to be better to get them in the ground quick instead of horrifying the mourners. But okay, let's say it's not SO bad yet that you can't carry them by the scruff anymore...
But let me tell you buddy, if you go to drag them by the scruff and the skin comes off. Give Up! Just Give Up! They are LATE for dirt duty!
But you may be able to bring some of that bloat down with salt to dehydrate them, but you'd need a lot of it. I also hope you have vinegar because you're really going to want to neutralize that smell, especially if you can't spare like half a pound of salt.
Lastly, I wouldn't even JUST gather flowers for this one, crush your herbs up and get a REAL smelly oil. Bathe them in that.
I'd get creative here too, get some fresh plants to cover up anything that's poking out you don't want being seen, like bones or muscle. Bring attention to the parts that you WERE able to restore, or aren't so bad yet. If something important is missing, like a leg or a head, gather up some dirt and cover it in flowers to give the appearance of them still having it.
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psqqa · 9 months
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this might just be because i am deeply, deeply terrified of The Vast Depths Of The Ocean, but i just cannot get myself up in arms about the whole "grave desecration" part of titanic tourism.
it is in fact significantly more comforting for me to imagine my hypothetical watery grave as somewhere people are constantly dropping in at all times than one where i am left to rest in cold, black, unfathomably desolate peace for all of eternity. cold, black, unfathomable desolation is precisely where the "nightmare" part of this nightmare scenario comes in for me, after all.
so yes, if you happen across my sunken bones, you all have my full permission to haul them back up to land. i don't care how much damage the oxygen and change in pressure is going to do to them and their archaeological value, just get me out of there.
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Antigone: daughter of Oedipus. After disobeying order from her uncle the king and attempting to bury her brother he ordered her live burial but when her lover attempted to free her he found she had already hung herself
Echo: cursed by Hera to only be able to speak in echo, she falls in love with Narcissus. Unable to attract his attention, she can only watch as he falls in love with his reflection
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mxmorel · 23 days
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this is perhaps morbid but i love talking about death plans/learning about what options are available to people after their deaths. death and funerals can be incredibly expensive and i think one of the best things you can do for yourself (to ensure your wishes are taken into account) and for your loved ones (to help ease the struggle for them as they are grieving) is to have a formal death plan/legal will.
this is especially important for those of us who are queer/trans, particularly those who may have next of kin who would not respect their name/gender identity in death (i.e. deadnaming on gravestone, burying in clothing of your agab, etc.) without being legally required to do so.
i wont talk about my death plan here (idk if it would skew results but just in case) but when i texted my mom a few months ago to notify her of the plans i was setting into motion (i wanted her to be aware just in case of the off chance that i die before she or my dad do) and she was shocked that i had a plan at all, and told me that she and my dad don’t have one, which was concerning, tbh, since they are older than most parents of people my age.
a lot of people naturally don’t like to think or talk about death but it’s such an important and personal thing. i can’t and won’t force my parents to talk about it until they’re ready, but i hope this inspires you to give it some thought if you haven’t already!
oh also pls reblog the poll if you feel so inclined so as to increase the sample size!
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autistic-af · 1 year
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How much to do know about green burials?
This is an ancient question I found in my inbox after logging in to the desktop version of Tumblr. Like...from August. It didn't show in my mobile version.
As for the question, I know quite a bit about green burials and actually have it in my will for natural burial with no embalming.
There are lots of different types of green (or greener) burial options but natural is my favourite as there is no embalming, no vault and they plant a tree 6 months afterwards over your body.
There is also composing, water cremation, and all sorts of green caskets if shroud burial isn't your thing.
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ollieofthebeholder · 4 months
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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic
<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website
Chapter 71: March 1998
Gerard likes to think of himself as reasonably fluent in Latin. At the very least, he can translate a good number of the texts his mother puts in front of him these days, and he’s written out his fair share, too, and they’re more or less understandable by anyone with a working grasp of the language. His pronunciation is decent and, when his mother reads aloud to him, he can usually comprehend it well enough.
He has, however, no clue what the old man in the frock coat is saying.
Well, that’s not…entirely true. He’s following along, for the most part. But it’s just off enough that it’s like the guy is speaking a different language. At the very least it’s a dialect he’s not familiar with, and does Latin even have dialects? He supposes it must have, at one point, just like every other language does—the Roman Empire was big enough, and lasted long enough, that there must be variants all over the place—but he’s never learned anything but the scholarly, textbook variety, and he’s not sure what’s going on.
He realizes he’s focusing on something supremely unimportant in the grand scheme of things. If he worries about how the man is saying what he’s saying, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s saying, or why he’s saying it. He can pretend everything is normal.
To his left, Melanie stands unusually still for once. Her black crepe dress with the white lace collar fits her way too well to have been recently purchased—Roger almost always buys things Melanie is going to grow into—but her patent leather Mary Janes must be new, since he’s never seen them before and they’re far too shiny to have been worn much; they haven’t even picked up much of the dirt. She’s taken her hair back with a faux pearl clip, silver stars wink in her recently pierced ears, and at her throat is a cameo necklace on a black velvet ribbon. Her face is drawn and pale, and she’s clutching an honest-to-God handkerchief trimmed in lace, which might have been white once but is currently the same ivory color as the cameo. She stares straight ahead, not moving, except for the fingers that keep twisting and twisting the handkerchief.
Gerard’s eyes rove over the crowd. It’s mostly older people, a few people he recognizes vaguely from seeing around the neighborhood and one or two who’ve come to Pinhole Books on occasion, but for the most part they’re all completely unknown to him. (He’s learned by now not to use stranger in a benign context.) Roger, standing on Melanie’s other side, seems to be polishing his square spectacles rather a lot, and Gerard’s not about to look at his mother, because he doesn’t want to know what she’s looking at and doesn’t want to get in trouble if what she’s looking at is him.
Unfortunately, that only leaves him two places to look.
He lets himself, reluctantly, look at the folding chair placed just ahead of them. It’s almost entirely empty, except for two figures. Aunt Lily has gained back some weight in the last year—a lot of weight—and now has to use a cane everywhere she goes; her hands, covered in black kid gloves, are folded neatly over the carved wooden handle, except when she raises one to cough discreetly into a handkerchief—like Melanie’s, except hers is trimmed in black. She honestly looks like she’s just stepped out of an Edwardian fashion plate in a magazine instructing people on proper mourning attire. For fuck’s sake, she even has a hat with a veil.
Of course Martin stands next to her, slightly behind her. He looks smaller than usual, like he’s crumpled in on himself. His black suit jacket is just a little too big for him, hanging loosely on his shoulders and covering half of his hands, but he’s finally grown into the Norfolk cap he’s owned as long as Gerard has known him. Because of where he’s standing, Gerard can’t see anything else, but he knows he’s wearing a pair of too-long trousers that cover his smart black school shoes. He can, however, see his face, and it makes his heart hurt. It’s beyond upset, beyond even devastated. Martin looks…lost.
Gerard looks away, and of course in doing so his eyes lock onto the box just behind the priest. For some reason, the box bothers him more than Martin’s face, even though it’s closed. Maybe especially because it’s closed.
He keeps telling himself the old man isn’t really in there. That it’s just a box, containing an empty shell. That they know the old man is dead and beyond the reach of the Fourteen. The body he viewed last night, dressed in a dove grey wool suit and fingers folded over the rosary his parents brought from Poland, isn’t really the man they all knew, it’s just a husk. That man is gone, somewhere they won’t see him for a long time, if ever. Gerard isn’t terribly sure what kind of an afterlife there is, if there even is an afterlife, and he’s not sure he’ll ever earn a place in the same afterlife as Alastair Koskiewicz if there is. But wherever it is, it’s somewhere better than this, it has to be.
It doesn’t help much.
It’s not just the fact of the coffin, the idea of being shut up in a box and dropped in a hole and covered in dirt forever and ever, and how horrifying it would be if he wakes up and can’t get out. Gerard’s read stories about that happening and it’s kept him up at nights sometimes, although not as often as thinking about the casual comment Martin made when they first met (why didn’t he ever tell Alastair about that, why hasn’t he told someone, is Martin still being punished like that, what if Martin wakes up in that coffin someday). It’s the whole fact of him being dead. Death is one of the Fourteen, after all, so even being dead doesn’t mean he’s completely safe. Gerard’s not sure how that works and he’s kind of afraid to ask.
Tiny cold fingers slide into Gerard’s, and he squeezes back on instinct. That’s all Melanie needs, apparently, and she clutches his hand so tight he almost expects his fingers to pop off. For a skinny little twig like she is, she’s got a really strong grip.
The priest recites a phrase, and even if it doesn’t sound exactly like how Gerard learned it, he at least knows what it means: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He then nods and gestures at the coffin.
Six men, five strangers and Roger, step forward and each take a handle of the coffin, then carry it over to the hole. A man, probably an employee of the cemetery, directs them, then signals for them to let go. For a moment, the coffin rests on a series of straps before the pallbearers lower it into the ground.
At his side, Melanie gives a low whimper and turns away for a moment, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, before straightening and facing the grave again.
At another signal from the priest, Aunt Lily hefts herself to her feet and limps forward, Martin trailing after her. She takes something from the priest and throws it into the open grave, then steps back. The priest beckons to Martin, who also comes forward and hesitantly lets something fall from his hand into the grave. Unlike his mother, though, he doesn’t stand back, just stays where he is. The priest ignores him in favor of finishing the ceremony.
Once the final amen is said, the crowd drifts away from the graveside and back towards the road, probably intent on heading back to the old man’s house, where a reception has been laid out. Roger moves over to assist Aunt Lily to her feet, and she leans on both him and her cane as she struggles forward. Gerard’s mother focuses on an awkward-looking young blond man standing off to one side, gives a sharp, sweetly poisonous smile, and heads in that direction. Martin remains where he is, staring down into the grave, even as the gravediggers uncover the pile of dirt under the tarp and begin spading it back into the hole. Gerard can hear the rattle as it rains on the lid of the coffin. Melanie flinches at the sound, then suddenly yanks her hand out of Gerard’s and rushes over to Martin’s side, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.
He doesn’t react. Gerard’s heart constricts.
Hesitantly, he crosses over as well and puts one hand on Martin’s shoulder and the other on Melanie’s. He’s taller than both of them, for now anyway, tall enough that he can look over their heads and see into the grave as the smooth, polished wood gradually disappears under the dry, brittle soil.
“C’mon,” he says gently, trying to steer Melanie and Martin away. “Let’s get back to the house.”
Melanie starts to come without too much resistance, but she stops dead in her tracks when Martin doesn’t budge. He keeps watching as the coffin is slowly but steadily obscured.
He’s not crying. Gerard doesn’t like it. He understands Melanie—he’s never seen her cry, no matter how upset she gets—but Martin wears his heart on his sleeve, and the fact that he’s not crying for his grandfather is…worrying. As is the way he’s just…staring at the hole, and the box.
“Martin,” Gerard says, a little more insistently. He holds his shoulder a little tighter, shakes him a bit, trying to get his attention. The fact that Martin still doesn’t react scares him more than he’s willing to admit, and before he can stop himself, he slaps the younger boy across the face. “Martin!”
Martin jerks and stumbles back from the edge of the grave. Gerard takes advantage of him being off-balance to grab his arm and drag him away; Melanie loops her arm through his other one and helps, although she’s not much help. Actually, Gerard has to admit that if Martin wasn’t already off-balance, he wouldn’t be able to move him either. Martin is chubby, to put it politely, and probably weighs as much as both of them put together, and he can be quite difficult to move when he wants to be.
The village cemetery is probably a good mile from the house, but most of the cars have already left by the time they manage to wrestle Martin to the road. Gerard reckons that’s probably not the worst thing in the world—the walk will do them good—but before he can even bring that up, a woman comes over to them. She looks to be about the same age as Gerard’s mother, a sweet-faced woman whose thick braid of hair is more white than black but whose dark blue eyes shine with innocence, and she’s dressed in a black skirt suit that looks more like an everyday work outfit than something bought specially for a funeral.
“It’s Martin, isn’t it?” she says in a soft, gentle voice. Martin recoils, shrinking back, a naked terror suddenly replacing the half-blind look that was in them before, but nods once. The woman doesn’t seem to notice his fear. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather, dear. I used to work with him a long time ago. He was a very, very good man.” Turning to Gerard, she adds, “And of course, you’re Eric’s son, aren’t you? Gerard? We used to be colleagues. I was saddened to hear of his passing.”
Passing. Like it was an easy thing and not the work of his mother and a pair of hedge clippers. Gerard swallows down that response and only says, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Turning to Melanie, the woman’s smile softens. “And who are you, sweetling?”
Melanie surprises Gerard. She looks up at Martin briefly, then back at the woman, but doesn’t answer. Gerard figures she’s just shy for some reason, or too upset to talk, and steps in. “This is Melanie. She’s our friend. Her dad was one of the pallbearers.”
“Of course, of course. Are you a friend of the family, then?”
Gerard starts to answer, but Melanie shakes her head and pulls on Martin’s arm. “Gerry, you know we’re not supposed to talk to strangers. C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Oh!” The woman gives a silvery laugh, then instantly sobers. “I’m so sorry, I forgot entirely! Of course none of you know me. My name is Emma.” She looks around the parking lot and adds, “It looks like everyone else has left already. Why don’t I give you a ride back to the house?”
“No.” That single word, laden with terror and cracked with tears, explodes out of Martin’s mouth as he takes a step back. It shocks Gerard, who suddenly realizes it’s the first word out of Martin’s mouth since Alastair died, but also because Martin is never rude to grown-ups. Or anybody, really, but especially not grown-ups.
He’s right, though. Gerard was on the verge of accepting the ride, but it dawns on him just how stupid an idea that is. They don’t know this woman, and for all she claims to know both Martin’s grandfather and Gerard’s father, they can’t prove she actually does. Did. She could be trying to kidnap them, or worse.
With that in mind, Gerard tosses a hasty, “Thank you, ma’am, nice to meet you!” over his shoulder as he heads up the block, arm still looped through Martin’s. It’s hard to say who’s dragging whom.
It takes them almost half an hour to get back to the house. The drive and street are clogged with cars, including the one belonging to the woman called Emma—so at least she’s actually here—and a few shadowy figures pass by the windows. Gerard figures they’ll slip inside, grab a plate each, and find a quiet corner to tuck into.
Martin surprises him again. He bypasses the house entirely, sliding his arms from Melanie and Gerard’s without a word, and makes straight for the grove of cherry trees, currently bare and only just beginning to think about budding; they won’t flower for at least another month. He doesn’t stop there, either, just reaches up and seizes a low-hanging branch and hauls himself into one of the older and sturdier trees. Martin might be plump, but he’s strong.
“Martin! Jesus.” Gerard looks at Melanie, who gives him a worried look in reply. Bowing to the inevitable, he goes over to the tree with her and boosts her up. Once she’s managed to pull herself onto a branch, and while she’s trying to figure out how to climb a bit higher to reach Martin, Gerard turns and heads back into the house.
For a wonder, he manages to elude both his mother and Martin’s, retrieve a few snacks he can secrete in his jacket pocket, and slip back out again without anyone being the wiser. Getting himself into the tree is harder, but with the assistance of the split-rail fence and a bit of effort he manages it. Martin has climbed as high as he possibly can before the branches won’t hold him anymore, and Melanie has managed, with some difficulty, to get just a couple branches below him. Gerard makes his way up to join them, then fetches the food out from his pocket and passes some to Melanie and some to Martin. He takes it mechanically, but doesn’t eat.
Finally, Gerard breaks the silence. “I’m sorry for telling that woman your name, Neens.”
“I don’t mind. She knew yours and Martin’s, it’s only fair she knew mine, too. I just wasn’t going to talk to her.” Melanie peers up at Martin. “You didn’t like her, did you?”
Martin shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. The sausage roll hangs from his hand, and he’s staring vacantly at something far away. He looks a lot older than nine years old and Gerard doesn’t know how to fix it.
Before he can figure out what to say, or even if he’s going to say anything, he hears voices and looks down. The woman from the cemetery is passing under the trees—which she has no reason to do, they’re not between the house and the cars—along with two other people, neither of whom look so old. Gerard can’t tell genders from this angle, only that one has curly blond hair and the other has sandy brown shingled hair. They’ve obviously all been at the funeral, or are trying to blend in with it, and are apparently mid-conversation.
“—know him?” a man’s voice asks. “I guess she must have, if you did. Shame she couldn’t come.”
“She’s very busy.” The older woman’s voice doesn’t quite have the same soft, gentle tones it did when she was speaking to the three of them, but it still sounds very sweet and pleasant. “That’s why she sent us, to pay her regards.”
“I have to say,” says a woman’s voice, “the, er, bereaved didn’t seem particularly upset.” The person with the shingled hair stops and puts hands on hips, so Gerard presumes she’s the one speaking. “Not until you mentioned the Institute, anyway.”
“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” the man says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I—I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. I mean, if her father worked there…”
“Worked, past tense,” the unknown woman points out. “Why did he leave, anyway, Emma?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Emma says, a bit vaguely. “It was so long ago—it wasn’t very long after I started working for Gertrude myself.”
“Was he in the Archives, too? Did he know Eric?” The man’s voice is a bit eager.
“Gracious, no, not the Archives. Alastair was a practical researcher. You’ll find his name on several of the catalog entries for the older artifacts, if you know where to look.” Emma sighs. “But yes, he knew Eric, too. And Fiona—you never met her, of course, she sadly passed away before your time—”
“Didn’t I get hired to replace her?”
“—he was always so patient with her. The rest of us thought she was a bit of a fuddy-duddy, honestly, but I suppose she reminded him of his own mother.”
“You must have known him well,” the unknown woman says shrewdly.
Emma shrugs. “Not very, honestly. As I said, we were in different departments. He usually brought down information for Gertrude from the other departments, and they’d chat a bit, but I was always so busy I never had much time.”
“Ms. Robinson must have been busy, too,” the man says, sounding defensive.
“I’m not saying she wasn’t, Michael dear. Only that I didn’t make the time to make as many connections as she did.” Emma sighs—a bit theatrically, Gerard thinks. “It’s something I regret in my old age.”
“You’re not old.” Michael, or at least Gerard assumes he’s Michael, touches her arm urgently. “You’re still quite young, honest.”
Emma laughs that same silvery laugh. “You’re so sweet.”
Michael sighs. “You know who I feel bad for, though? That little boy. Is that—was that Alastair’s grandson?”
“Yes, that’s Martin. I wanted to speak a bit more with him, but he’s understandably upset. He must have loved his grandfather very much.” Emma clucks her tongue. “The poor little thing.”
“His grandfather loved him, too,” the unknown woman says. “I didn’t see a single picture of his mother anywhere in that house, but that little boy was all over it.” She sighs. “Come on. We’d best be getting back. I’ve still got to follow up with a couple of people.”
They move off, and for a few moments, there is complete silence. Then something wet hits Gerard’s hand. He looks up and sees Martin, still staring fixedly ahead of him, but with big, fat tears dripping down his cheeks.
“Martin.” Abandoning safety, sense, and sausage roll, Melanie pulls herself to a standing position and lunges forward to wrap her arms around Martin’s middle before Gerard can tell her be careful. She buries her face in his side and just holds on for dear life.
“I can’t remember his face,” Martin says, his voice small and fragile and choked with tears. “I, I didn’t—Mum said, she said I wasn’t allowed to look if I couldn’t see on my own and, and I was too short, so I didn’t see him last night, there was just the picture, but he was so young, he wasn’t—he wasn’t finished. It wasn’t his face. But I can’t remember what he looked like. He loved me so much and I can’t remember his face…”
Gerard swallows hard. He can empathize with that, a little, anyway. He barely remembers what his own father looked like, and…well, he assumes his father loved him. He remembers loving his father, anyway. Martin’s had nine years with his grandfather and only just lost him. That has to be disconcerting.
He could describe it to him. Tell Martin what his grandfather looks like. He could also reassure him that even if he had been able to look into the coffin last night, it wouldn’t have looked like his grandfather, not with all the makeup and the weird slackness that death adds to a face.
He doesn’t. Instead, he puts one hand on Martin’s leg and the other on Melanie’s waist and summons up every ounce of authority and assurance he can.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
Martin blinks and looks down at Gerard. “Wh-what?”
“You don’t have to remember his face,” Gerard repeats. “Is that what’s important? Or is it important that he loved you, and you love him? You can remember what he sounded like when he told you stories or taught you poems, right? What it felt like when he hugged you? What the cherry pie he made specially for you smelled like?”
“Yeah…?”
“Then that’s what matters. Faces change. Yours isn’t finished yet either, or mine, or Melanie’s, and if you didn’t see us for years and years and then one day you saw us again, maybe you wouldn’t remember what we looked like, but you’d remember we’re your friends. Love doesn’t have to look. Love just has to be.”
Melanie and Martin both stare at Gerard, who tries not to look embarrassed. He’s almost twelve, and love isn’t a word he throws around a lot, but for these two, he’ll do it. He’s never had a brother or a sister, but he feels like he’s got one now. And Alastair treated him like another grandson. He’s, he was, a good man, and Martin deserves to not feel bad for remembering him in whatever way he does.
“Besides,” he adds, to lighten the mood a little bit. “He looks a lot like a cross between your mum and a bulldog with big dangly jowls and a walrus mustache. You don’t want that image in your head all the time.”
It elicits a tiny giggle out of the other two, and Martin starts to wipe his eyes with his sleeve before Melanie hands him her handkerchief. “He’s right,” she tells him. “Not about your granddad, not exactly, but—I don’t remember what Mama looked like either. Not really. The only picture I’ve got of her is from after she got sick, and that didn’t look like her really either.”
Martin dabs at his cheeks. “But…but what if I do forget?”
“Then we’ll remind you,” Gerard says. “That’s what family is for, right?”
At that, Martin finally smiles and nods. “Yeah. That’s what family is for.”
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