Try as he might, the tears wouldn't come. Even when the priest put a consoling hand on his shoulder, even when he let the damp soil slip from his fingers to land on the casket below, he could not weep.
He had cried a year earlier, when his father had succeeded at the Bourbon Suicide Plan at the 2,541st attempt. Those had been tears for a life wasted, tears of relief for a release from anger and heartbreak.
When the news came that his mother's cancer had returned, and this time there was no release, John felt nothing. One day he might have something to grieve with, and looking around, he knew four people that would be there for him. But for now he was empty.
"Goodbye, mom" he whispered. Hands buried deep in his pockets, he turned and walked away.