Chapter 23: The Last Word

We went to the cemetery together on the first Sunday of December.

It was cold and clear, and the grass was stiff with frost.

I carried a dozen white roses wrapped in brown paper, at twelve dollars the dozen.

Ansel carried a small spade he had borrowed from the groundskeeper and a manila envelope.

We walked side by side, not touching, up the long gravel path.

At the stone, he stopped, and so did I.

ROSALIND ALDOUS BUCKINGHAM. Beloved.

Every October I had stood here alone at midnight, with an envelope in my bag.

It was strange to stand here in daylight with someone beside me.

"Do you want me to go?" he said.

"No. Stay."

I knelt and laid the roses against the stone.

I'd practiced this in the shower and in the car and on this same grass for two years.

I found I didn't need any of it.

"Hi, Roz," I said.

My voice shook, and I let it.

"I kept my promise. It took two years, and it hurt more than I thought, but I kept it."

The wind moved in the bare oaks.

"I'm sorry I made you drive that night. I'm going to be sorry for a long time."

Ansel's hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"You wouldn't want me to be," I said. "I know. You'd tell me to stop, and you'd be right, and I'd go on doing it anyway."

I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

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