Did I Already Ask That?

A very short story or image about a girl whose brother dies.

In the cemetery, there is a gravestone among many that I recognize. It lays there, cold and covered with soft, white snow. Underneath the snow, ice, dirt and stone, there is a young boy. He has been lying there for three years now, staring at the tomb that has become his sky. His sister visits, and I come too, my hand on her shoulder as she places the rose over his name. She cries waterfalls, making puddles in the white covering his grave. Her body is stiff and hard when I press to her back. I want to ask if she is okay, but I know I already asked. And it’s not a good question. It is full of stupidity. Is she okay? Is anyone okay when a loved one goes before they do? Is anyone okay when their brother dies? No. They are not.

There is a cold that follows her. She covers it up, but it follows her like the shadow the snow makes on the grave. That cold softens when I press my arms around her and feel her cold. The boy would be happy if he could see his sister like that, remembering how to be happy again.