"How dare you

"How dare you..."

The words are dry and whispered: Roger Davis is surprised that he can even hear them himself. There is no one else to hear them.

He can feel his lip beginning to tremble and doesn't bother stopping it; he has never been one to stop tears when they come, or stop anger or happiness or fear. He doesn't hide things.

The tears trace small rivers down his cheeks, down to his jaw; they fall to land on the slick leather of his old battered jacket, and he doesn't track their progress further.

He doesn't know what to say, and suddenly he is out of place, kneeling here in the dry grass in front of the little grave. It's not enough, not for him. The air is getting colder, this time of year; the cemetery is almost-silent and leaves fall in soft, flame-colored flurries every few seconds, drifting to the grass or becoming airborne and floating away on the breeze.

He hates it here, hates this silence, and he speaks finally, tracing the words on the tombstone with the tip of his index finger.

"Mark Cohen," he whispers. "January fifteenth, nineteen seventy... February twenty-ninth, nineteen ninety."

He is crying, now, really crying, choking on the cold air: Mark, he thinks, Mark has been dead for nine months. Nine months exactly.

"...how could you do this to me?"

He asks this same question every time he comes. He doesn't understand; he doesn't think he'll ever understand. When Mrs. Cohen asked him why Mark did it, at his son's funeral, Roger had to say that he didn't know.

He doesn't speak again, not until the tears have finally worked their way out. And then, finally:

"I miss you so much, Marky."

His voice grows softer and he runs his hand down the front of the stone, letting it rest at the fine, soft earth at the foot.

"I love you. If there's anything you need..."

Roger stands, his bottom lip between his teeth, his hand resting on the stone for a moment.

"I won't be too far away."