Two brothers and a headstone

My grandmother, the head of our family for as long as anyone could remember, died in March at the age of ninety-four. On her deathbed she asked for only one thing: that her two sons, who had been estranged for over twenty years, should both come to her funeral. Nobody quite remembered what the quarrel had been about, though some said it was about money. My father, her firstborn, had always been the family's breadwinner and had never approved of his younger brother's easy life.

The day of the burial was cold and grey, and the little graveyard behind the church was crowded with mourners. Distant relatives I had never met shook my hand and told me stories about her childhood. My uncle arrived at the last minute and stood alone at the back, looking older than I had imagined. When the coffin was lowered, I saw my father glance at him, then look away. Afterwards, at the house, it was my uncle who spoke first.

He had brought a keepsake: a faded photograph of the two brothers as toddlers, sitting on their mother's knee. My father looked at it for a long time without saying a word. Then, to everyone's surprise, he took his brother in his arms. Since then they have chosen a simple headstone together, and the words on it were my uncle's idea. They say simply that she held the family together, and I like to think that my late grandmother would be pleased.