Chapter Text
“I made a casket-it’s pine and everything.” Wirt nods, solemn. The muddy slush of leftover March snow coats the Eternal Garden, and the brothers each grab a trowel they had gotten from the shed in the backyard and begin to dig.
“Do you think the bell is still in there?” Wirt stops digging and considers.
“Perhaps. It’s hard to say-the unknown was unfathomable. I suppose it doesn’t matter.” The two dig in silence, Greg uncharacteristically subdued. Wirt swallows heavily. His jeans are soaked through at the knees, and he bets Greg is cold. He’s been sensitive to the cold ever since he almost died of hypothermia (what were his parents thinking, letting him alone with Greg? Soon, he’d be-) He can feel his breath quicken, and closes his eyes. Breathe 1,2,3 and out 1,2,3. You both ended up ok. You’re a better person now, he reminds himself.
“Wirt?”
“Yeah?”
“I think the hole is big enough now.” Wirt nods.
“Let’s lift him in together.” Gingerly, Wirt reaches out his hands, feeling the wood rough on his fingers. It’s lighter than he expected. Slowly, the brothers put the casket down.
“Do you think he’s there now?”
“Yeah, I do.” Greg throws a bit of dirt on the coffin.
“I bet Beatrice will take care of him.” Wirt hopes this is the right thing to say.
“I can’t really remember her anymore.”
“What do you remember?”
“We were in the woods, and there was a nice teacher lady and her husband in the gorilla suit, you played on the boat, there was a town with pumpkin-head people, Auntie Whispers and Lola, oh, and the queen of the clouds.”
“Lorna. But that’s all the highlights. Seems like you remember the best parts.” Wirt shrugs. Greg ponders this for a moment.
“I remember the beast too. Waiting for the sun to set in a cup. I hope Jason Funderburker’s safe.”
“I think he is.” After a moment, Greg claps his hands.
“Alright! Wirt, will you play us something?”
“I can’t believe you convinced me to dig up my clarinet. I haven’t played in years.”
“I’m sure it’ll sound great.” Wirt digs out Michelle the clarinet from his old band bag. He blows in and winces. Michelle definitely needs a tuning. He fiddles with her while Greg pats down the earth above the casket.
“Here lies Jason Funderburker, salt of the earth. From the ashes he came and to the ashes he returns. Wirt, the music please.” Dutifully, Wirt begins to play. He’s rusty, the years of absence evident in his playing. Had he played like this back then, he would have died of embarrassment, but now he merely presses on. He makes a silent apology to Michelle and vows to give her a better home. He’s stumbled through about half of Stamitz’s Concerto No. 3 in B-Flat Minor when Greg gives a stopping gesture.
“I think it’s time for the ceremony. Wirt, would you care to say a few words?”
“Er, should we do a prayer first?” Admittedly, he hasn’t been to many funerals, just his grandmother’s when he was 10 and his father’s. But Wirt tries not to dwell, a feat he’s getting better at.
“Of course, Wirt, did you print them out?”Wirt pulls a few neatly folded papers from his jacket pocket. Greg holds out the mourning prayers Wirt found online. Together, in discordant harmony, they pray, the words foreign on their tongues. The wind blows feverently, reminding them that winter is not yet over. Greg gestures for Wirt to begin the effigy. Wirt pauses and clears his throat.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jason Funderburker the frog. For many years, Jason Funderburker was a dear confidante, a rock stopping the leaves from getting lost in the stream of creation. He lived a long, full, life hopping wherever he pleased and getting rid of flies in the house. A loyal and comforting presence, he will be missed severely.” Greg tilts his head, decides it to be an appropriate effigy, and begins his own.
“Jason Funderburker, you were there for me when few were. You believed in me when the kids at school didn’t. They say dog is man’s best friend, but I know better. I will always love you and never forget you.”
Wirt and Greg stand together, Greg just a hair taller than his brother now. They are still with reverence, looking at the rock Greg carved “JF” into. He wanted a proper gravestone, of course, but practicality had her brutal way, and he settled for a hand-size grey stone.
“Is mom and Jonathan stopping in your new apartment every other day? Mom kept bringing us food when we got our first place, Aly and I didn’t have to cook the first year we lived there.”
“About once a week, I guess dad mellowed her out a bit.” The two lapse into silence again. Wirt wonders if it’d be easier if they were closer in age. If they’d know what to say to each other. They had gotten better after the unknown, but the chasm widened again after he left for college.
“I wrote a couple poems. I tried writing one about Jason Funderburker, but it won’t come out right.”
“Is it anything like the flower-“
“We agreed to never speak of that again.”
“I’m an adult now, I wanna see it!”
“I burned it.” Wirt winces. He’s thankful neither Sara (the subject of the poem) nor Aly (the current subject of his poems) have ever learned of its existence.
“How’d it go again? Soft, smooth petals slowly bloom and spread…”
“You’re the worst. I was a teenager, ok?” He rubs the bridge of his nose. Greg sticks out his tongue and Wirt tousles his hair like he did when they were young. They are not so young anymore, time now staining Wirt’s eyes. They do not have all of the time in the world anymore. He can already feel a slight brush at his neck, death starting to creep in.
“You’re doing it again.” Greg mumbles.
“Yeah.” Wirt takes deep breaths and tells himself that death is not upon him. He is ok. For a few moments, there is little sound but the wind.
“What else is going on in your life?” Wirt winces, hoping the words would be smoother, but Greg isn’t perturbed, considering for a moment.
“Well, green woodworking is definitely my favorite, and Riley says I can work with them for a while, like a second apprenticeship. Oh, and Cam and I broke up, but we’re still friends.”
“Congratulations on the job! That sounds like it’ll be good for you. Sorry about Cam though.” Wirt is fairly sure this is an appropriate response. Greg smiles, just as bright as when he was a child.
“And you, how’s Aly?”
“Well, work’s alright, working on residential homes right now. Uh, Aly’s good, well, she’s…she’s pregnant. 11 weeks.” Wirt grows slightly pale at the admission, breathing picking up at the thought.
“Holy shit Wirt! That’s amazing! Are you nervous? How’s Aly feeling?”
“Aly’s good, way calmer than me. We’re going to officially tell everyone once she’s at 13 weeks, but yeah. I’m petrified.”
“You’re going to be a great dad.”
“You’re going to make a great uncle, Greg.”
The two brothers fall into a comfortable quiet, gazing at the graves and then up at the grey March sky, seeing the ever-expanding tree branches with tiny green buds. They are a stark contrast to the brown and grey discoloration of late winter, delicate yet hopeful. Spring is coming.