Drowning on Dry Land

The funeral was over, the guests gone, and now I stood alone in Mark's study, surrounded by thirty years of accumulated things. His old fedora sat on the desk—brown felt, sweat-stained band, the kind of hat nobody wore anymore except men who'd stopped caring what anyone thought. I picked it up. It still smelled like him: tobacco, whiskey, and that peculiar mustiness of books and time.

Mark had been dead six months when I found him again.

Not in any spiritual sense. I'd been sleeping with his brother David, which was its own special kind of shame. David had the same crooked smile, the same hands. He touched me like Mark used to, but with desperation, like he was trying to crawl inside Mark's ghost through my body. We were both drowning, clutching at each other in the dark.

The dog—Buster, Mark's ancient golden retriever—walked in and nudged my leg. He'd been wandering the house like a zombie since Mark died, eating only when David remembered to feed him. Buster looked at me with milky eyes, expecting Mark to walk through the door. His loyalty was devastating.

I followed Buster to the backyard. The pond where we'd scattered Mark's ashes was stagnant now, covered in algae. I remembered standing there with David, watching the water swallow Mark's remains, both of us crying—not because he was gone, but because we'd never said the things that mattered. Too late, always too late.

David found me there. He put his arm around my waist, and I leaned into him, hating how good it felt. "You're wearing his hat," he said quietly.

"I know."

"We're awful people, aren't we?"

"Yes."

But we stayed there together as the sun went down, two zombies moving through the wreckage of things left unsaid, Buster sleeping at our feet, and somewhere in the house, Mark's hat waited for whoever would wear it next.