The funeral looks like a wedding, or the wedding looks like a funeral, I can’t really tell the difference. Nor do I care to, because for me, as well as for Alden’s family as well as everyone that cared about him, it is both.

They are finally united, through the worst of means. Alden’s parents consented to the idea of burying them right next to each other, though their original thought was to have him buried near their home in Tibet, yet they changed their mind, remembering their son’s love for France and the love he had found in their time gone. They even paid to have the inscriptions on both graves, as well as the small ‘together forever’ stone, carved in Tibetan script as well, below the French. It was a shame they had never met their son’s lover in life, but my coworkers and I did our best to tell them all about Jean-Jacques, and they seemed as pleased as could be expected with their son’s choice, considering the circumstances.

It was a small, gateless cemetery just on the edge of the town itself, next to a park, and after the funerals ended at sunset, Alden’s parents lingered, seated and holding each other on the stone bench under a large evergreen. Watching them was like a lesson in some silent language. Long past vain consoling words and even tears, Régine and Marcel le Vella sat there, his arms around her and their hands intertwined. Occasionally one of her hands would start to tremble, and her husband merely stroked her wrists as the breeze gently blew falling autumn leaves around them like falling petals after a wedding. And sometimes Marcel would lower his head and tighten his hands, his fatherly will to lash out at whoever had harmed his offspring threatening to take over, and his wife covered his fists with her palms and his rage faded.

“You never think it will happen to you,” Régine whispered to me as I knelt by the graves to straighten the flowers. “You never think you will outlive your child. It is an injustice to live to see your own son dead.”

I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to cover my ears at these words, thus only proving her point. I didn’t want to think that what had happened to the le Vellas could happen to Amarante and I. It made my mind think such horrible thoughts about my daughter Modestine, and I suddenly looked around for her, a need to hold her washing over me. If I could just hold her, touch her, know she’s alright, then I’d be alright, too.

Modestine was in the corner of the cemetery, bent over and doing something. I called to her, and she held up one finger at me to signal for me to wait. But within a minute she was coming back to me with her little hand full of wildflowers in brilliant yellow, pink and purple.

I tried to smile for her, but her little frown stayed put. “What’s all that for, sweetie?”

“I found these by the edge, mommy. I didn’t bring anything to give Monsieur le Vella or Monsieur D’Auteuil, so I brought a bouquet. I used my hair ribbon to tie it.”

“How sweet of you, Modestine. Here,” I fished in my pocket, “split them up as even as you can. Mommy’s got some extra string, we’ll tie the other one up...”

She shook her head. “Non.”

“Why?” I paused.

My daughter trotted on past me, laying the flowers on the grass between the two graves tenderly and hopping back, and proceeded to prove that she was more perceptive than I had thought.

“They can share it, mommy. Just like you and daddy do.”

---

Time can fade that which is brilliant, over the years, flowers wilt and dry, stone cracks, wood and plaster start to weaken and fall apart. Your skin starts to wrinkle, you first notice it in your stressed eyes and overworked hands, and then the fatigue sets in. Those around you start to treat you more delicately and the day your objections go wrong you discover: they need to. Silver begins to show itself more and more in your hair. More and more you find yourself wondering about things that you wouldn’t even consider pondering in youth normally. Your will, retirement plans, burial plans, funeral funding, and if you own a business, well, you can’t take it to the grave with you.

It’s been twenty years since the murders. It escalated far beyond what anyone had thought it would. The prime suspect had been Alden’s roommate, the foreigner that few of us knew about, and when he returned to his country after murdering the two, he didn’t stop. He became a serial killer, known as the Doll Collector of Rotterdam for his perverse habit of dressing his victims in women’s clothing, and it wasn’t until about eight years after Alden’s death that he was shot and killed. Then the truth came out.

He wasn’t a roommate. He had been Alden’s lover. Why Alden chose to keep their relationship a secret nobody could guess. And why Alden chose to start seeing Jean-Jacques...

The day after I received this knowledge was the hardest of them all for visiting their graves, but I did it anyway. The lost feeling came back to me then, I was confused and somewhat angry at Alden, though I didn’t want to be. Could it have all been a fake? All the love I thought I had been witnessing?

Just before the tenth anniversary of their deaths, we had the ‘together forever’ plaque removed from the plot.

Now I was coming to the end of some grand story. This is the part where the hero of the book figures everything out and they are put to ease about their doubts and fears that plagued them for the entire plot. Or at least, it’s supposed to be.

Things had significantly changed. My daughter had just graduated from medical school, to be of all things a veterinarian, and she wanted to take over the clinic after my retirement. Aimee, our receptionist for twenty-eight years had moved to Morocco in the past few months to retire, and an awkward college student had taken her place. Jérémie and Eugénie were both gone, completing medical school and moving on to other towns and clinics to practice. Only Sabine remained where she was; and the two lab coats that had once belonged to our deceased coworkers remained hanging on the coat rack in the lobby in reverence, their names still stitched on the white fabric with black thread, scents of incense and cologne long since faded.

I guess one day I decided I wasn’t angry anymore. I wasn’t mad at Alden for what he had done, in fact, I came to a better understanding of it. He had been torn, I discovered. He loved Rozemond, this foreigner that had lived with him, but for much longer, he had loved Jean-Jacques. He’d gotten himself caught up in the business of trying to make everyone happy, as per the usual for him, only this time it went much further than I am sure he meant it to. He didn’t feel as though he could have let go of either of them. He didn’t want to hurt anyone and at the same time, he wanted them both. So, confused and afraid to disappoint either of them, he’d given up and let things happen, hoping it would work itself out in the end.

This idea had cost all three their lives. Now my anger was more directed at Rozemond, but every time I attempted to think negatively of him, something happened, as if a figment of my imagination was holding up a large stop sign in my face, trying to keep me from it. Like a little voice screaming at me ‘no!’.

Lately, it seems I have a lot of time on my hands. Too much time. Too much time to spend around the gravesite at a perpetual sunset. I wonder what happens when the sun finally goes beyond the horizon.

The seasons will whirl around me, cycling, over and over again, until I can stand no more and I will join them in the earth.