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Spring and summer 1999
It was Lucille’s birthday, the first since she’d passed, and Henry was struggling. With Luce off with Aaron—again—there was no one to distract him from his loneliness. So—he made himself a sandwich, picked some wildflowers from out back, and got in the truck to drive out to spend some time at his wife’s graveside. As heartless as it sounded, he hadn’t been there since the funeral. He’d told himself that he didn’t need to freeze out in some cemetery in order to remember her; the truth, though, was that he was afraid of how it would feel to stand there, looking at the proof of her absence, so permanently etched in stone.
When he got to the cemetery, he sat in the truck for a while before he made himself get out. It was empty today, and the stems of the flowers were gripped almost to oblivion in his fist. He took a deep breath and started walking.
It was a warm day, and the sun was beating down on him, but Henry didn’t feel it. He kept his eyes zeroed in on her spot as he walked. The stone was smaller than he remembered. There were three bouquets at its base, all fairly fresh. He wondered who’d left them. They were storebought and fancier than his. For a brief moment, he panicked and wondered if he should run to the store and buy a bouquet, but he remembered that Lucille had always preferred handpicked wildflowers to storebought bouquets. He placed his bunch front and center and stood there, feeling awkward. What was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t really thought this part out.
Sighing, he started to sit down but gave up about halfway down and had to use the stone to pull himself back to standing.
“Well,” he huffed.
He decided he didn’t care about the pain. What he wanted, more than anything, was to sit with his wife. He creaked and cracked his way down and pressed his fore head against the cool, lifeless stone. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. I wish you were here,” he whispered, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I’m sorry I haven’t come before. I talk to you all the time, up at the house. Luce is home with me now. She looks just like Suzannah; I swear, Lucy, it’s uncanny. I have to catch my breath whenever I come into a room and see her there.
“You’d be better with her, of course, than I am. She’s so needy. It seems she never got much from Suzannah, and I can’t imagine she’s getting anything of value from me, though at least I can keep her safe. She’s been spending an awful lot of time with that Guethle boy. Aaron. Remember him? His mother’s the one used to babysit Suzannah. You should see him, Lucy. He must be nineteen or twenty years old by now—big, tall. Looks like a man. He seems nice enough. Better than than scum she left in the city.”
Henry’s initial awkwardness faded as he told his wife everything that’d been going on. Eventually, it almost felt to him as if they were sitting together on the couch after dinner, discussing their days. (Almost—when it came right down to it, a slab of stone was a poor excuse for his Lucille.) He stayed far longer than he’d originally intended to, and he felt a big lighter when he did manage to get back on his feet—the sudden pain in his back notwithstanding.
“Well, sweetheart,” he said as he gathered the remains of his sandwich, “I’m going back to the house. I sure wish you could be there when I pull up.” He kissed the tips of his fingers and laid them on the stone, enjoying the day’s warmth for another moment.