I used to call him brother. I used to call her sister. We stood in an impenetrable circle, hands linked, minds connected. We were innocent, just beginning to understand that the world was not the bright, wonderful thing as we had been taught, but unwilling to let go of our dreams. Somehow, a shadow settled over our eyes. The childish inquisitiveness slid away almost unknowingly. Our grip on each other began to loosen. Slowly, our hands slipped from one another. Our circle grew as we stepped away from each other, letting the tides of age separate us.
It is times like these, however, that bring us back together. A death, the ultimate goal of life, is enough to make us remember what we once loved, what we once held dear. It is enough to persuade us to step back into the circle, to link our minds and hands, to cry as freely as if we were children. I look at each of them and the shadow over their eyes, and let my tears fall because they are too far-gone. I touch his shoulder, but he cannot feel me. I kiss her cheek, but she cannot respond. My tears land on their clasped hands, and they raise their heads towards the sky.
“It is starting to rain,†he says.