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It was raining. It rained quite often in Gotham City, but recently the city had been experiencing a month-long drought. Meteorologists were optimistic, saying things like “we’re due for a real downpour” and “get out your umbrellas, folks, rain will be here before you know it.” But when the dark rain clouds formed over the city, it wasn’t the lifegiving droplets that fell, it was tears.
Officer Dick Grayson walked through the open gates of the Gotham Cemetery. Rain drops pelted the black umbrella he held over his head. He was cold and wet, his clothes and shoes practically soaked through, but he kept walking. He passed names etched into cold gray stones–some remembered fondly and some that time had forgotten. Dick tried not to think about how his own parents were now just names on a stone, buried within this cemetery. No, today wasn’t about him. Today was about Bruce Wayne.
It had been two weeks since Thomas and Martha Wayne had been murdered in an alleyway in front of their eight-year-old son, and it had been nearly one week since Dick’s investigative questioning of the boy had turned into a bonding moment of shared grief. Dick had given Bruce his cell phone number with no expectation that the boy would ever call. But two days later he received a call from Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce’s butler and now guardian. Bruce wanted Dick to attend his parent’s funeral. How could Dick say no to the request of a grieving boy? So, even though he had just worked third shift at the precinct and was dog-tired from a hellish night of stopping a bank robbery, he made his way to the newly dug graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne.
A small crowd was gathered under the tent that was marked with a large ‘W.’ Dick could see the familiar shape of Commissioner Gordon, the ends of his trench coat wet with mud and his collar pulled high. There were several other people who Dick assumed to be relatives, and there, standing in front of the open plots was Bruce Wayne with Alfred steadfast by his side.
“Grayson?” Commissioner Gordon greeted, but there was an air of soft surprise in his voice as Dick stepped underneath the tent, folding up his umbrella.
“Hello, Commissioner.” Dick said, shaking the firm hand that was offered to him. But before the Commissioner could ask what Dick was doing at the funeral, Alfred and Bruce approached.
Bruce Wayne was dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit that seemed to repel any rain or mud. In his hands he clutched a damp handkerchief with the letters 'TW' embroidered on the corner.
“You came.” Bruce stated quietly.
Dick gave him a gentle smile, kneeling down to the boy’s height. “Of course I did. Mr. Alfred called and said you wanted me here, so here I am.”
“You’re still in your police uniform.”
Dick rubbed the back of his neck with a chuckle. “Yeah, sorry about that. I worked last night and came straight here after I got off this morning.”
Bruce’s eyes widened, a wave of guilt passing over his face as he looked down at his shoes. “You… You must be really tired. I shouldn’t have–!”
“Hey, hey! Buddy, look at me.” Dick tilted Bruce’s chin up so their blue eyes could meet. “I wanted to be here, okay? So, don’t you feel guilty about anything, all right?” Dick gave a smile which seemed to reassure him.
“Um… will you sit next to me during the service?”
Dick looked taken aback by that request. “Oh, I’d be honored too, but don’t you have other family members you need to sit with?” Dick glanced up at Alfred for confirmation. The butler glanced towards the small group of chattering women dressed in black.
“Nonsensical biddies of extended relatives who have swarmed to see what money and valuables might be left to them.” Alfred retorted, sending a perturbed glare at the muttering gaggle. “I think your presence by Master Bruce’s side is more than appropriate, Mr. Grayson.”
‘Well, Bruce, if Mr. Alfred has given me the seal of approval, then of course I’ll sit next to you.”
Despite the melancholy expression in Bruce’s eyes, Dick swore he saw the boy brighten, even if just for a moment. Bruce’s small, warm hand grabbed his own and pulled him towards the foldout chairs that had been positioned in front of the graves. A minister dressed in black robes and holding a well-worn Bible instructed everyone to take their seats. Rain pelted the tent, making it nearly impossible to hear the droning words that were spoken. The minister talked about death and life and that like all things “this too shall pass.” But Dick wasn’t focused on the words, he was focused on the boy next to him. There was such sadness in Bruce’s eyes, yet not a single tear fell from his cheek. He simply stared forward at the stones that were now carved with his parent’s names. Dick gave Bruce’s hand a soft squeeze and Bruce squeezed right back.
Even as the caskets were lowered to the ground, the rain still continued. Even as the minister disappeared, followed by the verbose relatives, and then Commissioner Gordan, the rain still fell. Dick stood by Bruce’s side, with Alfred a mere few feet behind. Bruce hadn’t let go of his hand. Dick tried to think of something to say, but sometimes you didn’t need to use words to speak. So he let the silence and the rain do the talking. The silence allowed for space to feel, and the rain shed the tears that Bruce no longer could.
It was Bruce who broke the steady silence. “Your parents… Are they buried here?” Bruce looked up at Dick.
“Yeah, over there underneath that willow tree.” Dick pointed to the other side of the graveyard where an old willow was bent over a small cluster of graves. It was the only plot that the circus had been able to afford. It wasn’t a prominent position in the graveyard, but as Dick had grown older he liked how the willow seemed to be protecting the spirits of John and Mary Grayson, who were buried within her roots.
“Can I meet them?”
“Bruce, I don’t–”
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Grayson.” Alfred interjected. “I will stay here for a few more minutes and then I will join you shortly.”
As Dick surveyed the butler, he got the sense that Alfred needed a moment alone to say his own goodbyes to Thomas and Martha Wayne. Dick had been so focused on Bruce’s grief that he failed to realize just how much Alfred was grieving too.
Dick gave a small nod, pulling out his umbrella as he and Bruce walked hand in hand across the muddy graveyard. The graves of John and Mary Grayson were simple. There were no embellishments or frills, just simple names carved into stone–names that Dick Grayson had loved more than anything else in the world.
“Bruce, meet my mom and dad, John and Mary.” Dick said, keeping his voice as still as possible.
Bruce stepped out from under the umbrella, moving closer to the gravestones. He reached out to trace their names with his fingers. “Do you miss them?” He asked, his small voice barely a whisper.
Dick gave a sad, sorrowful smile. “Every day.”
“Do you ever forget them? Like the way your dad laughs or the way your mama smells?”
Dick moved to Bruce’s side, kneeling down. He didn’t care about the mud that soaked his knees, all he cared about was the boy in front of him. “Sometimes I forget things. Memories fade over time, Bruce. That’s just the way memories are.” Then Dick smiled. “But there will be reminders. Like when I hold my old stuffed elephant Zitka, I can remember all the pillow forts we built together in our small trailer, or when I smell popcorn, I remember how beautiful they looked flying across the trapeze.”
The trapeze. Dick was suddenly carried away to another memory–the song that always used to play during the introduction of The Flying Grayson act:
“He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease
A daring young man on the flying trapeze”
Dick stopped himself when he realized that he had begun to hum the fanciful tune. Bruce was looking at him quietly.
“You were remembering them, weren’t you?”
Dick flushed a little with embarrassment, but he smiled. “Yeah… and, Bruce? You’ll find the things that help you remember them too.”
The rain had stopped. Dick looked up as a small cluster of clouds parted, allowing for a singular breath of sunlight to peek through. It was warm and bright like a treasured smile. When Dick turned his attention back to Bruce, the boy’s cheeks were streaked with fresh tears as he looked up at the beautiful sunlight. Dick rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.
“You’re remembering them, aren’t you?”
"Yeah…”
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Death leaves a heartache no one can heal
Love leaves a memory no one can steal
-Unknown
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