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Slim fingers and their calloused tips press the steel strings of the guitar down into the neck, jumping frets with practiced ease. The strings no longer leave indents on his fingers like they did when he was young. His other hand, the nails a bit longer to pluck at strings - no need for a pick that would always become lost - seem to bounce between strumming and hitting the wooden body to create a soft beat. His voice, gruff as it falls deeper into his chest range, but still relatively in-tune sounds out into the air. Only the wind responds, it is close enough to her for him to be satisfied. His eyes stay closed, opening for brief moments when his chords sound slightly off and he needs to readjust his fingers.
The sun falls victim to the heavy clouds over the cemetery and it seems as if, for a moment, the world stops to listen to him. Then, after a breath of pause, an exhale, the rains begin to fall. The gravestone behind his back shields him from the majority of it and he has no self-concern left to give so he stays and continues to play. He hums the words he has forgotten, not because of neglect or because he doesn’t care, he’s simply lost them to time. He’s older now, much older than he thought he would ever reach, older than she was when she died. He finds it hard to believe that years could possibly pass so quickly. His coat soaks in the rain, soaks in the damp dirt which was slowly becoming mud and revels in the familiarity of the graveside.
He can taste the rainwater in his mouth and it brings him back to the present. His voice falters as raw pain, guilt, and grief comes rushing to the surface. It bubbles up through his throat and travels out with the lyrics as he finishes the last refrain. She always did like the song, it was the most his father would tell him about her. He allows himself to wonder, in these brief moments, what it would have been like if she hadn’t died, if she had swept her children out from under Thomas and never looked back. He has no more tears left to shed for that fantasy. He presses an open palm into the dirt, stretches his legs out and lets the guitar rest on his lap and looks to the grey heavens. The raindrops sting his eyes, but still, he looks up with the same utter defiance that he had as a child in the very same position. He pushes his hand in and feels the dirt cling to his fingers, the closest he would ever get to holding her hand.
“Shoulda been me. The world woulda been better for it,” he says. He wouldn’t dare say it if the person who is waiting for him was within earshot, “I wish I’d never been b-- well, you know how I feel .”
He sighs and wipes the rain from his face with the damp sleeve of his coat, “ I believe in most gods, in most things, but the only thing I have faith in… is you . An’ that you guide me where I needa be an’ that you know what’s best. S’what I’ve always known, mother’s are supposed to look after their sons aren’t they, Ma?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, “Oh, I got somethin’ to show you, Ma.”
He removes from his pockets a collection of three small trinkets and stands to face the gravestone. The first, a tiny wood-carved bunny which he places atop it with the utmost care.
"Zee made this for you. She's working on her elemental manipulation. Cheryl told me you liked rabbits. Hope you don't mind me tellin' stories of you to me kids."
Next, a blue stone with an intricate rune carved into it, "S'a protection symbol for happiness. Some faerie thing, y'know? M'sure Klari will tell you all about it."
Lastly, he places a yellow and orange beaded bracelet on top of the gravestone, "Astra said these were your favourite colours and she made it for you. Don't ask me how she knows. That's the thing 'bout havin' psychic kids. They continually surprise you."
He trails his fingers along the carved stone and lets out a sigh, "Happy Birthday, Mum."
A firm, but comforting hand grasps his shoulder, "John, it's almost time to go."
John mumbles and turns, his fingers lingering on the stone as he begins to march his way back to their car.
Jason smiles down at the grave, "I'll take good care of him, Mary Anne, don't you worry."