The sky was gray; the thunder rumbling quietly, as if it knew, like it was mourning too. Silent tears cascaded endlessly down my mom's cheeks, landing on a white blouse already soaked through with rain and milk. She didn't speak, couldn't; no one else did either. Thunder spoke for us all. Two of my uncles acted as pallbearers, lifting a casket slightly bigger than a shoebox. As they lowered it into the ground, Mom fell to her knees, wailing. I cried too, holding onto her with small arms, reality sinking in like pouring rain. My little brother was gone forever.
Heather Cline is a graduate of Southeast Missouri State University (social science), a caregiver by day, and resides in Missouri, USA. She can be found on Twitter/X @hmclinewrites.