“I’ll sign it before we head out to the cemetery,” I said.

At one o’clock we drove out to Oakridge Cemetery, following the old county road past the limestone quarry and the bare sycamores along the creek bed.

Helen stood by the stone gatehouse with a small handful of wild yellow lilies she’d picked near the hospital parking lot.

The grass over Margaret’s new grave lay smooth, the dark earth leveled beneath a thin layer of oak leaves.

I knelt on the damp grass and set the wild lilies next to the brass marker.