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He visited often. She, never.

The children waited through dragging winter months for
spring. New days in which to play again and smell the sweet scent of pine.

But she is gone forever - the older she - the head of the family.

He placed a still white rose beside the marble slab, and
green grass, soft and trimmed, carpeted the resting bed.

Now he is gone to rest beside her. She - the other she - never comes. Moved away they said and all the children gone too.

A stranger wanders down the dim path of pine and bends his back toward a solitary stone. It is not amongth the rest, which stretch away in a regular pattern row upon row.

It is rather on its own, squeezed from the earth on an
irregular slant, half buried in the high grass. He squints
but cannot make out the lichen-covered inscription.

Instead he plucks a still white rose from the bouquet he is
carrying to the grave of a loved one. He places it beside
the marble slab, and green grass, soft and high, waves across the resting bed.

copyright 1998 CMSTEWART