What We Carry

The rain turned the windshield into a blur of gray and red taillights. Elena gripped the steering wheel, the wet **cat** in the carrier on the passenger seat meowing softly — the last living tether to Marcus.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to be alone," Sarah had said, pressing the carrier into her hands. Sarah, the **friend** who'd somehow become both Marcus's hospice nurse and the person Elena had to share him with in his final weeks. The irony of dying while the two women you loved most sat awkwardly at your bedside.

The funeral home smelled of lilies and carpet cleaner. Elena spotted Marcus's brother, David, across the room. He wore Marcus's old fedora, the **hat** Marcus had donned every time they went to jazz clubs, every anniversary dinner, every time he'd said: "Call me if you need anything." He'd meant it. David hadn't.

"You look tired," David said, not meeting her eyes.

"It's been three months."

"Still. You should take care of yourself."

She almost laughed. They'd always competed for Marcus's attention, and now they were competing for who grieved better. She wondered if David had been the one to find Marcus's journals, if he'd read the parts about wanting to be scattered at the lake where they'd spent that last summer together.

The service was short. There was no body, just a closed casket with personal items inside. Elena placed the cat carrier near it. The cat, Mochi, reached a paw through the grate toward the wood.

Afterward, she drove to the lake. The **water** was glass-calm, reflecting a sky that couldn't decide between rain and sun. She waded in, fully clothed, holding Marcus's favorite mug — the one David had left on the buffet like it meant nothing.

"You always said you couldn't **bear** goodbyes," she whispered, submerging the mug. "So we won't say one."

She didn't cry. She just watched the ripples spread until they disappeared, like everything eventually does.