It was a bright, slightly chilly day when Alan Svenson was laid to rest. The funeral party standing out all the more as Spring brought forth brilliant flowers in the distinguished cemetery that held the Svenson family plot.
It rained for Adam's funeral, Paul Metcalfe remembered, shivering slightly as the memory of thick raindrops ghosted over his skin, and a week afterward.
He had spent two days and nights standing the foot of Adam's grave. The thought of leaving Adam alone and unguarded unbearable, reprehensible.
Until one of Adam's grandsons, the very one they were burying today, had come, slugged him, and delivered a thorough chewing out for worrying the family. Then Alan, having inherited his grandfather's build and strength, had hoisted Paul over his shoulder and carried him out of the graveyard, cursing him all the way.
"Come on, Old Man, funeral's over. Grandpa would never forgive me if I let you miss the memorial meal. He promised us that you would finally tell us all the 'dirty deeds' you two got up to back in the day."
Paul snorted. A Svenson family tradition, that consisted of lots of food, drink, and sharing of memories, with laughter ringing out as often, or more often than sobs.
And Paul had become the chief instigator of that laughter for most of them.
He looked down at Adam Svenson, who bore very little resemblance to his great-great grandfather, save for the bright blue eyes and an eerie but precious warmth that was purely Captain Blue, and smiled for the first time in weeks.
"You make me sound like one of those new-fangled 'life recording' devices," he teased gently.
"Nah," and Paul couldn't help but fondly remember that this Adam's great-great-great grandfather would have been appalled by that casual language, "you're more like one of those tortoises that somebody gets and then it outlives them and becomes the family legacy," he patted Paul's back as he guided him over the limousine, "you're our living link to the past...and the future. We're grateful for that."
And so was Paul.