Big Macintosh trotted along, pulling a cart with a blanket covering it behind him. He kicked up dust along the dirt trail, and came to a stop at a green pasture. He unhitched himself, and walked to the back of the cart, tossing back the blanket. In it sat a cask of cider and two tankards. He scuttled the cask and filled the mugs to the brim. He placed one mug on the tombstone beside him, and sat down on the cart with the other mug in hoof.
"Hey, Pa," He tossed back the cider and wiped the froth from his muzzle.
He came here often, perhaps more than he should. He supposed he should feel guilty over leaving his sister with so much work back home, but this was his weekly ritual. The way he figured it as often as he stood in for her so that she could go camping with her friends, they were even. At the very least he wanted to think that way, but he knew better than to let such a skewed world view alter his thinking or damage his relationship with his family. His father had taught him better than that.
"They hit me first," Big Mac yelled in the kitchen, "So now we're even"
"Fighting, Macintosh. Really," His father shook his head, "Listen to me, now. There are many ponies who obsess with getting even. And that's all they ever get. Give them better than they deserve, and put them in your debt. They will be in your debt, but you will be in their heart. You can only get ahead in life by giving better than is deserved."
Big Macintosh refilled his cider. He drank heavily and licked the froth from his lips. That lesson had been the most difficult one to apply. Over the course of his life he had found multiple caveats to the rule, and discovered that it worked best to keep it in mind when intentionally subverting it. He considered saying something to his father, but enjoyed the silence. His own silence was something he had learned to appreciate.
"Talking in class?," His father frowned as he looked over the teacher's note, "Big Macintosh, you know better."
"Everyone else was talking," Big Mac objected.
"Big Mac I'm gonna give you a few rhetorical questions," His father chuckled, "How many ears do you have? How many mouths do you have? And most importantly, why?"
Big Mac thought for a minute. He tapped his head and scratched behind his ear. He looked at his father and shrugged.
"You'll get it boy," His father walked off, "But you can't speak until you do."
Big Mac had spent the majority of that night thinking about the little riddle his father had given him. In his silence he noticed a certain quality to his father, he seemed to always let at least two ponies speak before him. Big Mac rubbed his temples, and then smiled. He went into the living room and tapped his father on the shoulder.
"Do you understand?" His father asked.
"Eeyup." Big Mac answered.
Big Mac refilled his cider. That had been an important lesson for him. It had stayed with him ever since. You have one mouth and two ears, because you should always listen more than you speak. While it may have annoyed someponies over the years, he found that it added a certain charm to his interactions. He had not yet passed it on to his siblings, but he tried to be the best example to them that he could. He had always tried to be a good example.
"She just follows me around everywhere," He complained to his father, "It's annoying!"
"Do you know why Applejack follows you?" His father asked.
"Nope," He stated.
"She admires you," His father chastised, "She's not trying to annoy you, son. She's trying to be like you. So, when she's around, don't do anything you don't want her copying."
Big Macintosh pressed on the tap, and the cask gurgled as the soporific liquid poured into his mug. He had originally wanted to disagree with his father, but later learned better. His father had definitely been right about that lesson. Applejack had copied him for years.
He patted the tombstone. Big Mac thought it was a fine location for a grave. He had picked this field at his father's request. Not that his father had requested a specific location, but he had specified as to where he did not want to be buried.
"No," His father lay in bed, shriveled and weak, "Don't bury me at Sweet Apple Acres. That will just make the mourning longer and harder. Bury me somewhere down the road, a good distance off. I don't want anyone seeing my grave every day. This'll be hard enough as is."
Big Mac had to fill out that request the next day. They didn't have much time to mourn, applebucking season had been just around the corner, and their relatives had their own fields to tend to. The work had made mourning that much more difficult. There was no closure for him.
Big Macintosh reached to fill his cider and received nothing but a few measly drops. He sighed, rolled the cask on its side, and rested his head on it. The world spun around him as he closed his eyes and relaxed in the cart.
The moon hung high against the dark sky by the time Applejack trotted down the dirt path and into the lush field. The only noises she could hear were the crickets chirping and Big Mac snoring. She stopped by the grave, tipped her hat, and turned to her sleeping brother. She placed the blanket over him, and hitched herself to the cart. She began a steady trot back towards the farm. He stirred in the back but continued to breathe heavily.
“Yeah,” Applejack looked over her shoulder, “I miss him too.”