Eventually, inevitably, they will find their center, centripetal force accelerating them towards their collective nucleus; the culmination of days. Gravity confuses even the most objective of empiricists with its weight, its pull towards which everything converges. Everything finds its end in the ground, gravity hungrily consuming the body, forgoing the soul.
The shovel rests on a pile of dirt a few feet away, a solemn mourner to things which are real before they become ashes, before the dust of flesh blows in the wind, indifferent to meaningless misery. This is where they are, the breeze and his hand bracing her back, fleeting as it is.
He knows only too well how soon she will demand an exhumation, both these graves they have dug in the dirt—one sealed with a silly plastic trinket for the things she'd been foolish enough to consider, the other unmarked. It is only when she scrubs at the earth trapped under her fingernails and examines the blood crusting her palms that she will begin to understand.
For now, he holds her still, waiting for the healing to begin (when and if it does).
A/N: The title is from Denver Butson's "heavy things". Also, I will no longer be posting my Bones fanfiction here-- I've moved to LiveJournal under the username rollsofrice.