Wet fallen leaves stuck to the rubber soles of my shoes as I walked up the familiar gentle hill.

I walked past the row of old granite vaults near the heavy iron gate.

The heavy clouds were turning a darker gray, threatening a cold storm.

I didn’t bring red flowers this time.

I kept my bare hands pushed deep in the pockets of my heavy wool coat.

The gray granite headstone looked terribly cold under the thick afternoon sky.

Paul’s name was carved deep into the stone, along with the two dates that bracketed his life.