It was all blurry. The black of the mourners, the driven snow and the white lilies on his coffin all melded into one.
I was dry.
I felt a hand take mine, my numb fingers stiff with cold. I didn't look to see who it was but I knew it was Charlie. For all his flaws, Charlie was a good brother. Neil's parents had been Episcopalian so I wondered why the service was being held by a catholic priest. I guessed that Mrs. Perry had been catholic in her youth and the ghosts of those angry sermons and promises of eternal damnation still haunted her. She didn't want her boy wasting away in purgatory or worse; hell.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,"
The typical words, phrases, gestures all came back to me. Here I was again, standing by the open grave of one I loved. With a sudden surge of human emotion, I squeezed Charlie's hand. He responded by protectively drawing an arm around my shoulders as if he could shelter me from this storm.
The morning after the play, I woke with the dawn and was given words of comfort for my dead friend.
Neil had shot himself that night, bleeding red on his living room floor. I screamed when I found out. Todd did as well, but he found solace in the open snow. I followed but not to find him. In my robe and slippers, I found our Indian cave and fainted on the floor.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Neil would have rather died than have his passion taken away.
When Catherine died, Heathcliff muttered with mad eyes through clenched teeth
"I cannot live without my life; I cannot live without my soul."
When the grief subsided, flowing back to the sea like the tide, the beach would be littered with anger and resentment.
Ashes the ashes.
Dear god, why did he leave me?