He died that night. Not physically, but emotionally and spiritually. It may as well be physical. A loss and a longing consumed him and a dark shadow is all that lives to occupy his shaky body.
It should have been me, Grace.
His hands gripped tighter around the stems of the crassula ovata he held.
I keep taking the medicine, but I still can’t hear you. I miss your voice.
He stood quiet. A mower cut in the distance. Birds chirped gaily in the trees. Wind breezed softly against his face. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He heard everything but.
He knelt and placed the flowers against her headstone.
You can’t imagine how I hate this.