The only reason that Frank's mom was buried in the United States was because he asked for it to happen that way. He wanted her to be close by, so she was buried in California. He visited her grave on the anniversary of her death every year. The black suit would be pulled out of the back of his closet only once per year, any more than that Frank wouldn't have been able to handle. It was his grandfathers old suit, that had only started fitting him after the blessing of Mars in Venice. It reminded him of his lost family members and always smelled salty, like the tears that had been constantly shed on it year after year. The rough black material rested against him snugly and the Asian-Canadian man rubbed his cheek against the collar reassuringly. He had not brought his wife, Hazel, with him. This was something for him and his mother alone to share.
Frank got out of his car and walked across the squelchy grass of the cemetery towards where his mother lay under the ground. Her grave marker was a stone arch, only just big enough to walk under. It had a wrought iron gate that had designs depicting tree branches. Frank picked a flower from the bouquet of blue daisies that he was holding and weaved it through the fence. He proceeded to do this with the rest of his flowers, until the tree on the gate looked as if it had bloomed. Then he stood back and looked at it. His eyes fluttered closed and a single tear traced it's way down his cheek.