Chase stood over the coffin, alone, in the rain.
He was crying.
Why was he crying.
He shouldn't be crying.
Everyone else already left.
He shouldn't be crying.
He shouldn't still be here.
He heard thunder in the distance, and he remembered that there was a storm that day, too.
The day he left.
He shouldn't be crying.
He is crying.
His knees give out, and he kneels beside the mud and fresh-turned earth.
He shouldn't be crying.
Someone grips his shoulder.
He is shivering, and still crying.
He kneels in front of his father's grave, like he's kneeling before an altar.
He laughs, at that.
An altar for his father.
Just his earthly one.
The good catholic boy inside him says that's sacrilege.
He shouldn't be crying.
He is crying.
He remembers that someone touched him, and realizes that the rain has stopped falling on him.
He looks up.
There's an umbrella there, above him.
And the hand that's holding it belongs to a familiar person.
Chase closes his eyes, and leans against their good leg, which is close to him.
A hand rests on his shoulder, as he cries.
"No matter how much you hate them… they're still your dad."
Chase nodded, and cried.