>The peppery-sharp scent of carnations tickles her nose as she crosses the unkempt cemetery toward his grave.
She met him only once, at five to his ninety; she remembers the cracks in his skin and the gaps between his teeth. He gave her a Japanese doll wearing a kimono in vibrant reds and greens; she’s treasured it for thirty years.
She replaces the faded plastic flowers with her bouquet, brushing leaves away from the headstone. She resolves to visit more often, to keep the area around the grave clean.
He lived his life alone. He shouldn’t be alone in death.
shaeconnorwrites 