9. It always rains in april
IT ALWAYS RAINS IN APRIL
G rief didn’t knock, it waited – hiding around corners, in dark corridors, ready to jump out at the least suspecting moment. It rearranges rooms before it rearranges people.
She almost didn’t sit down, but it was time to pay her final respects.
Spring paused just inside the sanctuary, instinctively scanning for the nearest exit. An ordinary person would look for restrooms or empty seats. Spring needed contingencies, quick escapes in case things got too heavy.
The room was fuller than she expected. Not just students and teachers, but industry faces she recognized, a few musicians she’d seen on late-night couches and festival lineups, people Cameron had run with after she left, after school had finished – after hope had started costing more than it gave.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like an industry event, but Cameron had a way of turning even his passing into a party.
A ripple moved through the room when they noticed her. Whispers. Double takes. A few soft gasps. Someone leaned in to confirm what they already knew.
She felt that familiar pressure – being seen when she didn’t want to be perceived.
She kept her head low and slid into one of the last empty seats near the middle, the pew creaking beneath her weight – close enough to honor him, but also to disappear. Her knee bounced once before she stilled it, folding her hands in her lap, as if bracing for impact.
Small noises began to make themselves known – programs rustled, mourners settled, sniffled. Somewhere up front, a low hum of organ music filled the air.
She exhaled slowly.
Just get through this.
She had already clocked the side aisle, measured how fast she could stand, how little noise she’d make if she needed to slip out.
Then she felt it.
A shift. A disturbance that carried a particular gravity.
She didn’t turn around – she didn’t have to. She knew it was Preston. And with her luck, one of the only remaining seats was right next to her.
He moved down the row carefully, murmuring apologies, bodies making space. When he reached her, he stopped. For half a second, neither of them moved. Then he sat next to her.
Close. Not touching, but present in a way that altered the air.
She nodded once to acknowledge him. He nodded back. “Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” she said.
That was it.
The pastor stepped to the pulpit before anything else could form between them. And then the church organist sat at her bench to begin playing.
“We’ve come to celebrate the life of Cameron Fontaine Ellison.”
The service began. Scripture. Prayer. Familiar rhythms designed to soothe, to explain things to his loved ones. Spring had never found words comforting enough to justify.
Her chest tightened anyway. She focused on breathing in counts – four in, four out – eyes fixed on the stained glass above the altar.
Before long, the sermon was over and the family and friends could speak, something she wasn’t ready to do.
She saw his parents and wept for them openly, but beyond that, only nameless faces passed the microphone.
One of Cameron’s collaborators spoke about late nights in makeshift studios, about laughter that echoed long after the music stopped. A cousin shared a story about Cameron as a child, dancing barefoot on the living room couch, fearless even then.
Spring listened. Absorbed. Endured.
Then her father stood. Her body reacted before her mind did. Her shoulders tensed. Her throat closed. Her palms went damp.
He began to speak about how Cameron was like a son to him.
It was heartbreaking, and the last thing in the world she wanted to watch – her father at a funeral talking about someone she loved.
In truth, she hated funerals – always had.
Something about the finality, the way grief demanded an audience, the way pain became public property.
Her father’s voice cracked on Cameron’s name. And that was when it started building. The heat. The pressure. The sense that the walls were inching closer.
She shifted in her seat, pulse quickening.
Quick calculations were running through her head again. Two steps to the aisle, one quiet apology. She could be gone before anyone noticed.
Fuck this I’m leaving.
She leaned forward slightly. And then Preston’s hand closed firmly over hers.
Steady.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t look at her, didn’t draw attention. Just leaned a fraction closer and hummed – barely audible, just vibration and memory. My Cherie Amour…
The melody found her before the words did.
It slid under the panic, wrapped around it and softened its edges. Her breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of his hum. She squeezed his hand once without looking. She stayed.
Her father continued speaking – about Cameron’s laughter, about the way he lit up rooms, about the loss that felt too large to name. Spring heard the grief in his voice now, not just the words. A man mourning not only a nephew, but something else, something quieter.
She swallowed hard.
Preston’s hand lingered a second longer before he started to let go. Instead, she grasped him harder. Not yet. Her hand was safe in his. She was safe.
When she finally let go, she realized the pastor had approached the pulpit again.
Spring felt it before it happened once more – the shift. That subtle transition in the room when something sacred started tipping toward spectacle.
“Before we leave, I want to say: we’re blessed today,” the pastor said, voice warm, practiced.
“Blessed not only by Cameron’s life, but by the gifts he inspired in others.
” A few murmurs of agreement landed on his words.
“There are artists here today,” he continued.
“Friends of Cameron’s. People who loved him through music. ”
Her pulse kicked. She followed his line of sight instinctively.
Preston.
He was tense, frozen, his head bowed, hands clasped tight between his knees, as if bracing for impact.
“And I think a great way to end this celebration of life would be to hear from one of those talents,” the pastor said, smiling now. “It would honor Cameron greatly if one of those friends shared a song. Just a moment. From the heart.”
A hush fell. And then murmurs of agreement. Phones were already lifting before permission was given.
Spring’s breath caught.
The pastor gestured toward Preston. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we could welcome brother Preston Cole.”
Every head turned.
Preston looked up slowly, confusion flashing across his face – then panic. Real, unfiltered. His jaw clenched. He shook his head once, subtly, like he hoped the pastor would see it.
He didn’t, or otherwise didn’t care. “Can one of the usher’s hand him a microphone, please?”
Preston tried to shake his head again, but the organ began anyway, low, expectant.
A camera flash went off.
Spring felt something hot rise in her blood. This wasn’t a tribute. This was a pastor looking for an opportunity. How many churches had a star this big sung to their congregation? She could already imagine his sermon on Sunday, bragging about Preston’s performance.
As the usher came with the microphone, Preston stood halfway, pressure forcing him upright before he’d decided anything. His eyes searched the room, unfocused, overwhelmed. He was a man being pushed onto a stage he hadn’t agreed to stand on.
The usher extended the microphone to meet Preston’s reluctant hand.
Before he could grab it, Spring stood and took it from the usher. The movement cut clean through the moment.
She stepped into the aisle, heels firm against the floor, voice steady before she reached the stage. “Excuse me,” she said calmly.
The pastor hesitated. “Sister?—”
“With respect, Pastor Tidwell, this is my cousin’s funeral,” Spring said, turning to face the room confidently. “Not a showcase.”
A ripple passed through the crowd.
She glanced at the phones, the cameras, the people already framing the moment for later.
“And one thing I know Cameron would want, is to keep this about his life and homecoming. There are a lot of talented people in this room, and his passing isn’t an invitation for them to perform,” she continued.
“We’re here to mourn, to celebrate his life.
To remember him as a human being – not as content. ”
Silence followed.
Spring turned back to the pastor. Her tone softened, but her words fierce. “Again I say, with respect, Pastor: this isn’t the time.”
The pastor cleared his throat. “Of course. You’re right.” He gestured to the musician, who closed the organ gently, like shutting a door.
Spring didn’t wait for a reaction. She stepped back down and returned to her seat.
Preston was still standing. As she approached her seat, their eyes met, relief and gratitude reflecting in his.
Finally he sat, the service continuing as the pastor ended the benediction.
Preston leaned toward her just enough to murmur, “Thank you.”
She nodded once; words would have been too much. And Cameron, somehow, would’ve approved.
The pastor closed the service gently. No dramatic crescendo, just a soft “Amen”. When the closing prayer was done, people shifted and programs folded – a collective exhale that came only after holding something too heavy for too long.
Spring rose with the rest of them. She followed the slow procession outside, sunlight pressing down harder than it should have had any right to. The hearse waited like a full stop on the day – black, still, patient. People gathered close, some touching the car briefly as if it could feel gratitude.
She stood back and watched it all, letting the moment pass through her instead of demanding something from it.
Afterward came the repast.
A familiar transition. Grief rearranged into folding tables, aluminum trays, murmured condolences that tasted the same no matter who said them.
Fried chicken, greens, mac and cheese done at least three different ways. Someone’s auntie had insisted on banana pudding.