#10 Noah, Ira & Atara

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#10 Noah, Ira & Atara

Three young people were standing at a cemetery in Connecticut. Last night had been the burial of their parents.

In their grief they found slight comfort in the fact that their parents had been together when the drunk driver had hit the car, because Noah, Ira and Atara Lyman couldn’t imagine a world for their father without their mother. Nor could they imagine one for their mother without their father.

They had died as they had lived for the past thirty years: together.

One by one the Lyman siblings bowed down and placed two red roses each on the grave.

After a while they left to drive back to the house their parents had shared for 26 years, ever since Noah had been born four years into their marriage.

When he was four he had asked why they didn’t have him earlier, so he could’ve been older and been in school already, his mother had laughed and his father had ruffled his curly red hair. “We needed time to sort things out together,” they had told him. “As well as time to make special preparations for a special boy.”

Later when the trio had all been in school they had received the non-sugarcoated version. President Bartlet’s daughter had been the target for an assassination, and their father had been hit. At the same time their mother told them about her girl friend who had died, but Noah Jethro, the two year younger Alexander Ira and their youngest sister Joanne Atara had rolled their eyes at each other at that.

They figured she was just fibbing. After all, everybody could see that there were no parents around who were so disgustingly in love as theirs.

THE END.