In the daylight the pink petals looked pale and stiff, like paper decorations from a dime store shelf.

For half a century I had paid three dollars a year for something that felt like a lie.

The dirt path behind the Methodist church was spread with crushed white river shell that crunched under my black shoes.

The crepe myrtle in the corner of the memorial garden was dropping its pink blossoms all over the grass.

Under the lowest branch sat the little gray stone, flat and square and without a single word on it.

I knelt in the weeds and laid the three carnations across the top of it.