Dew wet her feet as she crushed the tender blades of grass beneath them. Tiny flames waved and writhed an interpretive dance on top of wax plateaus inside red glass. The candles lit up parts of the headstones they sat on.
Andy made her way through the cemetery to her sister's stone. She could never bring herself to think of it as a grave; she couldn't bear the thought of her sister's body buried inside a mahogany box. She sat on the grass and stretched out her long slender legs and wiggled her bare toes at the writing on the stone.
"Hi, Love. I just came to say happy birthday." Andy leaned forward, struck a match and touched it to Johnna's candle. The amber dancer started out weak and small but quickly grew into a beautiful ballerina. Somehow its recital seemed more tender than the others. It didn't writhe, but wave.
"Dad and Mom send their love. So does Bull-head. Do you know what he did this morning? No, of course you don't. He burst into my room and stole my blankets then was completely bull-, um, furious when I got upset.
"He's turned into such a little monster since he hit puberty. All he talks about are girls and cars and football. He never does anything other than whine about how his voice is changing. 'Man, did you see - UGH! I hate my voice! Why can't it just decide how deep it wants to be?' He needs a grip.
"The parents are still fighting. It's all they do now. At least at first I could say that it was just stress, but it's been over two years; they're used to you being gone. I think they fight now because they're used to fighting. I hate to think of what's going to happen."
