The second oldest.

It rained for five nights in a row after Darius’ death. The sky became a spilt bucket of day-old ashes, trickling across a once clear, morning sunrise. Wet dirt, the smell brushed against the bridge of their noses. The front yard stuck to the ends of everyone’s shoes, mud clumped underneath stained sneakers. When it rained, no one was supposed to move inside the house. Rainy days were full of stillness, a lull caught in-between the plastic tiles.

Wednesday didn’t like to sit in a dark and quiet house. With ears finetuned to sound, she could not exist in silent spaces. Every breath seemed amplified in the absence of unmediated noise. Mae, on the other hand, took these moments as they came—with neither reluctance nor excitement. As the second oldest, Mae was used to the stillness that came with the rain. Their family wasn’t that traditional, but their mother, coming from a traditional family, still practiced what she could.

So, whenever it rained, she’d pull Wednesday and Mae aside, hushing their protests, whispering, “yáádilah, doo yáshti’ da.” Wednesday would cross her arms, huffing as she sat crossed legged in front of the stove. Mae would just nod, taking a seat at their chipping kitchen table. And Darius—Mae thought back to the last time is rained before—well, Darius slept. You weren’t supposed to do that either, but as the oldest, Darius made up his own rules.

Tonight, they didn’t need to be told. Mae watched as Wednesday folded her legs up on her own, quietly eyeing the dancing flame through the glass door. Their mother didn’t say anything, merely counting the seconds between the next clap of thunder and flash of lightning under her breath. The funeral was three days ago.

“Sidá,” Wednesday tugged at Mae’s sleeve, the stitching came loose, “You’re not supposed to stand.”

Mae nodded. Taking her usual place. The soft pitter-patter of rain reflected off their asphalt roof. The kitchen curtains rippled in the wind, casting waves across the dust covered floor. They always left the window above their sink open. Darius was pretty adamant about it. He said something along the lines of, clearing out the bad memories from the air—on distancing yourself from what you subconsciously hang onto. Darius was always spitting stuff like that—things that didn’t really make sense. Wednesday liked to joke that the open window kept the house from smelling like cigarette smoke; a habit he fought to hide and had yet to break. If Mae closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough, she’d could almost feel Darius sleeping in the next room over. Curled in his black hoodie, the bitter whiff of cigarettes sneaking beneath the door, collecting at the base of her nose.

***

Mae didn’t come in here often, even before Darius passed. He was very secretive about his room. Always making sure it was locked. Always making sure the outside windows were closed. Darius’ room was off limits. No one entered unless they were invited. And he rarely, if ever, invited anyone.

"What should we do with his posters?” Wednesday held a giant faded poster of a Star Wars movie, Return of the Jedi. Star Wars was possibly the only childhood interest that followed him into his teenage years—courtesy of their father, back when he was around.

“Hwoláh, just fold it up. We’ll figure it out later.”

Wednesday nodded, carefully taking the edges between her fingers. “Remember when he got that VHS boxset?”

Mae smiled, “He made us watch with him for days.”

“Obi-Wan was your favorite. R2 was mine. And…” Wednesday furrowed her brow, she trailed off.

Mae looked up, “Obi-Wan was mine. R2 was yours. And Luke was Darius’.”

“Yeah,” Wednesday took a deep breath. “Luke was Darius’.”

The bedroom was surprisingly well kept; just a few clothes half-heartedly tossed into a pile in the corner. A couple shelves lined the wall, each covered in small trinkets ranging from guitar picks to broken skateboard trucks. Mae worked on clearing the closet. She folded worn hoodies and crisp button-up shirts, likely only worn once. She placed each in a black trash bag, the plastic crinkling, loud in the silence. Wednesday worked on the walls; untacking yellowed photographs and tattered posters. Slowly working her way to the shelves that lined the wall near the window. Every now and then they’d make eye contact. Wednesday would smile that usual sad smile of hers and Mae’d just nod.

“Do we have to burn it?” Wednesday turned a green jacket over in her hands, admiring. There were patches lined up along the right sleeve. You could tell which were recent and which were old by the frayed edges. She picked it up from the pile Mae placed near the window.

Honestly, Mae didn’t like it either. If it were up to her, she’d keep everything. But she bit her lip and nodded anyways, “It’s the right thing to do.”

“We don’t always have to follow tradition,” Wednesday slipped on the coat, “What if I want something to remember him by?”

“Then take a photo, or a guitar pick,” Mae shook her head, returning to folding, “But we need to burn his clothes.”

“Hmm,” Wednesday frowned. She took the material between her fingers, studying the stitching, “Did you burn his clothes?”

“Whose?”

“Shizhe’e.”

A pause. Mae set down the grey, band tee she was folding. Her face crumpled at the edges, turning her eyes narrow and mouth sharp. She didn’t feel like responding in English—English felt too direct, too distanced. So, she lifted her head, and muttered a soft, “Aoo’, shí doo shímá.”

Wednesday couldn’t mask her surprise, “When?”

“Niłchist’otsí jiní.”

“November,” she whispered it to herself. “You didn’t save anything?”

“N’dagá.”

​“Liar.”

Mae froze, eyeing the window.

“We share a bedroom. I see you take it out sometimes,” Wednesday stepped closer, setting aside the box with trinkets from the shelves. “You wear it when nobody’s home.”

"I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It blue. Your favorite color.”

“I don’t—”

Wednesday pulled her hand into her own, “You don’t have to lie to me,” She smiled lightly, “Sometimes I dig through your drawers to find it.”

Mae frowned, attempting to pull back her hand, but Wednesday held firmly. “It’s none of your business.”

“The least you can do is share,” Wednesday dropped her hand, “We both loved dad. Just as we both loved—love Darius. Why can’t I have something to hold onto, too?”

Wednesday waited for a response, counting down the seconds, letting the silence of the room surround them. But Mae didn’t say anything. Instead she just stared, watching the open window. Outside, rain sent little streams of water cascading down the rocks, collecting in pools at the bottom. Their red truck covered in mud, turning the once bright red a dull rustic orange. If the rain continued, no doubt they’d be flooded.

“Mae,” Wednesday’s frustration turned to concern, “If what you believe—about keeping clothes from the passed—is true, you shouldn’t have dad’s sweater.” She took a deep breath, “I don’t know if I believe it—I don’t know what to believe actually. But it seems like you do.”

​Mae kept her eyes on the window, watching even after Wednesday left the room, turning the air stiff and warm. Watching even after the sun set, turning the house dark, to the point where her eyes struggled to adjust. Watching even after the rest of the world slowly climbed into bed, bidding everyone goodnight.

***

For the first few days after, their mother still set a place for Darius at the table. Sometimes she’d smile and laugh it off, something along the lines of ‘old habits die hard.’ But most days she’d frown, the corners of her eyes watering, before excusing herself to the bathroom. Mae felt like she should say something—anything. Maybe take her mother for a walk. Offer the comfort of a warm embrace. Maybe ask where she went early in the morning and suggesting her company. Just, something to numb the ache coiling deep within all of their stomachs.

“Da’oshá’.”

 Mae nudged her sister, “Food.”

Wednesday shoved her back, setting the box aside. They’ve been working on Darius’ room for the past three days. She quietly returned to dismantling the shelves, “Ałtsé’, I’ll be there in a second.”

“Well, hurry then,” Mae rushed out of the room, stepping over two full trash bags. Their mother hated waiting. To Mae’s relief, there were only place settings for three people. She sat down in her usual spot, on the left side of their mother—Wednesday always sat on the right.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Their mother set down a covered skillet. The heavenly smell of fried potatoes and spam filled the room, relaxing Mae’s shoulders.

“Wednesday shá’?”

“She’s finishing up her box,” Mae got up to grab serving utensils, “She’ll be here soon.”

Their mother paused, before sitting down “How’s that going?”

Mae forced a smile, “We’re getting there. Slowly.” She kept her eyes downcast, shifting the food on her plate, “You can still help if you want.”

“N’dagá.” Her response was immediate, “It not good for a mother to clear his belongings.”

Mae’s fingers shook, she considered her mother’s words before whispering, “You don’t have to follow tradition.”

A beat.

A deep breath, before a sad smile spread itself across her mother’s lips, “Diigis, we’re not doing anything bad by following tradition.”

“Well it doesn’t feel like we’re doing anything good either.”

“Yádilah, we don’t—it’s not,” Their mother sighed, “It’s not good to hang onto that stuff. By doing this we are keeping him alive.”

Mae frowned, stabbing a piece of spam, “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Their mother nodded, “I know, shíyazh,” She pulled her into a light hug, “I know.”

​Mae closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of her mother’s embrace to seep, brewing softly beneath her skin. A portion of that warmth reminded her of Darius, rounded along the edges of their mother’s arms. Darius wasn’t much of a hugger. He very much kept to himself, especially during the months his mind went jagged. But when he did hug, it was full of comfort, with a tinge of affection and a teaspoon of tenderness. Mae wondered if Darius got his hugs from their mother. She also wondered if he got his mind’s jaggedness from her as well.

***

​The weather was nice. Compared to the rainy days before, the sun came as a surprise. It lingered nicely on her skin, light caresses along the back of her neck and bare arms. When Mae tilted her head back, the sun took her face between its hands, rubbing circles on her cheeks. All things considered, today was a great day to be outside. Perhaps an even better day to start a fire. Mae looked at the small plastic container of gasoline in her hand. She felt the back of her jeans for the box of matches. It stuck out against her pants. Wednesday and their mother said they’d meet her outside, near the old rusted junk cars. She’d already dug a hole for the clothes. Mae was just waiting.

Her eyes caught on an old broken-down swing set; blue paint peeling from its base, revealing a harsh grey underneath. The chains looked red from a distance. Mae didn’t doubt that if she sat on the swing, she’d break them. But just seeing the swing set, decayed and thrown into the dried ditch, reminded Mae of Darius. He never used the ‘swing’ part of the swing, but rather, he turned it into an obstacle course. Climbing the edges, using the overhead pole as a monkey bar, and sliding down the chain like a rope. Darius was a fun kid, someone Mae had to constantly watch over. He’d scrap his knee dozens of times, but unlike Wednesday, he never came crashing through the screen door crying. At such a young age, Darius never asked for help. Another one of the small things that followed him into his teenage years—independence. Mae bit her lip, to a fatal level.

“What are you staring at?” Wednesday sat down one of the trash bags, mud from yesterday’s rain digging into the soles of her feet.

“Just the old swing,” Mae shrugged.

“Darius loved that swing.”

“Yeah,” she tightened her drip on the gasoline in her hand, “He did, didn’t he?”

Their mother set down the other bag next to Wednesday’s. She stretched a bit before gesturing to Mae, “Throw em’ in.”

Mae nodded, taking a deep breath before tossing the bags into the hole. Wednesday watched, biting the inside of her mouth. After Mae finished dousing the bags with gasoline, she took a match from the box, and handed both to their mother, “Na’.”

She took them gingerly, feeling the weight in her hands, “Ahé’hee shíyazh.”

Mae did her best to keep her face neutral. Their mother said a few words they couldn’t decipher under her breath. Mae could pick out ‘thank you,’ ‘son,’ and ‘safe.’ But all the other words were lost in the light breeze grazing their cheeks; in the specks of dirt staining their socks; in the calls of birds jumping from branch to branch in the trees.

The moment Darius’ clothes caught on fire, Mae felt a deep sadness burrow its way down her throat. She hadn’t felt this way during the funeral. She hadn’t felt this way at the hospital. But now, it was like another loss all over again. Mae knew Wednesday felt it too. She swayed at her side, before reaching to grip Mae’s hand. The heat melted into the pores of their face, warming the base of their cheeks, making their noses hot. Their mother grabbed a stick, turning over the bags, coaxing the flame onto untouched sections.

If she squinted, Mae could see the green jacket Wednesday was admiring. The bright patches along the arm slowly caught fire, turning each into a charred black. The grip on Mae’s hand flinched, she knew Wednesday could see it too. Tears sat near the corner of her eyes. Darius never cried. Never in front of them. Maybe if he did, they wouldn’t be here doing it for him. The thought brought a sharp pain to her chest. For the thousandth time since she got the phone call, she wished she was a better older sister.

“Remember when he used to ride that old bike around?” Their mother stood with her chin rested on the turning stick, staring into the flames. “With the flat tires? He’d ride around, asking if anyone needed help.”

Mae felt Wednesday chuckle, “He used to call himself ‘The Problem’ solver. He’d tape a paper sign to his back and knock on people’s doors.”

Their mother nodded, “And you used to follow him, on your little legs, asking to sit on his handlebars.”

She took a deep breath, “I remember when he finally let you, you got so excited, you ended up crashing in the ditch.”

“We both got bloody noses,” Wednesday smiled, “He wouldn’t let Mae help him get his bike out, wanted to do it himself.”

“He always wanted to do everything by himself,” Mae sighed. “Even after he got older, he wouldn’t accept help from anybody.”

They all went quiet for a moment. Listening to the low crackle of the fire, watching as sparks and ashes spread across the dirt, going dark the moment they touched the damp ground. Mae wanted to remember the good. There was so much good to Darius. So much to remember and cherish. But there were also bad. Things they couldn’t—shouldn’t ignore. Days he wouldn’t come out of his room. Nights he went missing. Mornings he spent throwing up in the bathroom. Mae felt powerless. There’s only so much you can do for your siblings. You have to let them make their own choices, but sometimes, even that doesn’t work out. Mae turned to look at Wednesday, studying the specks of mud in her hair and the dark birthmark behind her left ear. How do you step back and let them grow up? How do you let go?

“What else do you remember?” Their mother finally turned to look at them, her eyes reflecting the heat from the flame, “Mae?”

Dozens of memories suddenly came to mind: the day they missed the bus and crossed the highway together by foot; the night they spent in the back of the truck, attempting to communicate with aliens; the evening bike rides down to the chapter house and back; the nights they laid on opposite ends of the couch, watching scary movie after scary movie; the mornings they fought over the single working bathroom at their shimasani’s house, because their aunt’s wasn’t connected to the water.

But all Mae could say was, “I’m sorry.”

***

The ground was finally drying. There was an odd warmth in the air, a taste of spring. Wednesday didn’t like being out at night late. It wasn’t safe, stories of night beings and kidnappers plagued her mind. But Mae had begged her to come. They snuck out together while their mother slept in the kitchen. She’s been falling asleep more and more at the table. Mae and Wednesday worried she might be getting bad again. They were grateful for her stability thus far, considering their father’s death five years prior. If so, they’d have to check her back into the hospital. Mae was finally old enough to watch over Wednesday and Darius, but nothing beat having your actual mother around.

“What are we doing?” Wednesday shuffled in place, tightening the blanket around her shoulders.
​
“I thought about it. And you’re right.” Mae took a match from her back pocket, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder, “I shouldn’t hang onto things.”

“If you’re talking about Darius, he doesn’t—we don’t blame you for anything. Why would we—?”

“You’re right.” Mae repeated, “I’m punishing myself.” She pulled the blue sweater from her bag, turning it over in her hands. “I have to stop punishing myself.”

Wednesday just watched, quiet. Turning the rest of her body still as Mae brought the sweater to her face, took a deep breath, and dropped it into the hole. She waited for a second, counting to ten in her head, before pouring the gasoline and lighting the match. The heat licked at her fingertips, teasing. Wednesday broke the silence with a gasp as Mae tossed it in.

The fire grew. They stood, inviting the flame to pull at their feet. Wednesday crept closer, offering a piece of her blanket. Mae took it, allowing Wednesday to rest her head on her shoulder. They breathed together for ten seconds. Under the blanket, Mae linked hands. She closed her eyes. The fire’s heat no longer overbearing, but instead, comforting. The ground underneath her feet turned solid. She felt Wednesday’s hair against her neck.

“What do you remember, Mae?” She whispered.

“I remember his smile,” Mae felt herself lighten, “the mornings he’d talk to me. About dad, about mom, about himself.” She couldn’t stop herself from crying again, “I remember him finally asking, and me failing to give it to him.”

“You’re not—”

"I know,” Mae rubbed her eyes, “I just—I wish—”

Wednesday pulled her closer, “Shiyáádi, I’m not asking, ‘what should you have done?’ I’m asking, what do you remember?”

Mae nodded. She took a deep breath, brushed the tears from her eyes, and finally let herself answer the question, “I remember…”

***

The smell of smoke lingered in their clothes for days after. Mae and Wednesday finished boxing up the rest of Darius’ stuff, placing a couple things in storage while giving the rest to Goodwill. The sharp pain in their chest probably won’t ever go away, but Mae knew they’d eventually grow used to it.
​
Their mother still fell asleep at the kitchen table and sometimes she doesn’t possess the strength to get out of bed, but Mae and Wednesday were there. Wednesday cared for the house, while Mae cooked. Every now and then, the two empty chairs at the table brought silence. Some days their mother refused to join them, opting to sit near the window instead. The kitchen window stayed open, inviting soft breezes into their stews. The smell of dirt mixing with the smell of freshly made fry-bread.

Mae walked past Darius’ room a lot. She’d eye the open door and sometimes touched the bare walls. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the carpet. It was so easy to just lie down in the center and close her eyes. Wednesday usually found her like this.

After dinner, they’d sit together in Darius’ room; back to back, wrapped in blankets. Asking each other what they remembered and letting themselves hang onto their older brother that way.

Back to: Issue Ten

Next: Julia Pols

Danielle Emerson is a Diné writer from Shiprock, New Mexico. She is a graduate of Brown University, where she obtained a B.A. in Education Studies and a B.A. in Literary Arts. Her writing focuses on healing, cultural knowledge, and family. Danielle also writes personal narrative, fiction, poetry, and theatrical plays. She is the winner of the 2022 Aliki Perroti and Seth Frank Most Promising Young Poet Award for her poem “shíma yazhí ahéheeʼ / thank you, auntie.”