The cold bites at my face. Tom pauses a few feet ahead, searching for a point of recognition. He lifts a large fallen branch aside, clearing the way for us. Then he takes out his phone to light the path. The snow glistens under the pale beam.
I know where he’s taking me. I knew the moment he told me on the porch.
Up ahead, an iron gate appears, its spikes pointing toward the sky. The path beyond leads into a small courtyard. The fence around it looks ready to collapse under the weight of the snow. In the center stands a multi-tiered fountain, surrounded by empty flowerbeds that will likely burst with color in spring.
But now it’s a lonely place, buried in snow.
Abandoned.
Forgotten.
But not by Tom. And not by me.
Tom kneels down. With the side of his arm, he brushes the snow away until the letters appear.Christian Thomas James McKenna, written in gold script.
The grave is so small. Cold grips me through my breath.
This little guy had only been three years old.
I remember that night on the beach when Tom trusted me with the rawest pain I’d ever seen, crying into my shoulder as he told me what had happened with Chris. And now, standing here, it’s becoming painfully, devastatingly real.
Tom crouches in front of the grave, smaller and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.
He steadies himself with one hand on the stone.
I say nothing. This is his moment.
“Hey, little guy.” His voice is hoarse, both from cold and with emotion. I sniff back tears, wiping my thumb across my cheek as he speaks.
“I brought you something.” Tom pulls a small ziplock bag from his pocket. I can't really see what’s inside.
He walks over to the fountain and reaches into a small opening in the base, pulling out a box hidden inside. He sets the box next to the grave, tries to open the combination lock, but it's frozen solid.
He curses, letting out a frustrated grunt. After some tugging and prying, the lock finally gives out.
I peak over his shoulder as he lifts the lid. Inside is a collection of objects, each sealed in a small plastic bag like the one he brought.
My breath stutters as I look at them: a wolf plushy, toy cars, a mini guitar, marbles, a fountain pen; things that belong in a child’s treasure chest.
And mixed among them are objects meant for a teenager. A grinder with a hemp leaf. A pack of condoms, fake ID. VIP passes for Joan’s club, all printed with Chris’s name. The box is a time capsule filled with a timeline that never existed.
Tom places the ziplock bag on the gravestone. Only then do I see what it is: a keychain shaped like the island of Avalon. His thumb traces the plastic as he begins to speak.
“Brought you something for your car key. Your sister’s got a pigeon-shit green convertible from uncle Jay last month. Have you seen it? It’s fucking ugly.”
The laugh he lets out is weak and hollow. “Don’t tell her I said that, okay? I’m trying to make things right with her.”
He picks up the keychain, holding it up as if Chris were standing right there in front of him.
“I don’t know shit about cars, but I’m sure your friends would be impressed. Don’t let them drive. They’d probably crash it because it’s not theirs.”
His voice cracks on the last words. What starts as a soft laugh, turns into a muffled sob.
This hits hard. It feels like my heart’s been ripped out and thrown to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces right next to Tom’s. I watch and break with him.
“I have to let you go. And you have to let me go. Please, because… I can’t take this anymore. I’m sorry, Chris. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. Please, I’m so sorry. Please let me go.”
His hands dig into the snow, fingers splaying wide, his curls almost touching the frozen ground. A raw cry that sounds like a wounded animal rips out of him.
