Just Wondering...
Sunday's visit to his mother was a hard habit to break. It was unseasonably cool for mid August--a welcome relief from the city's typical heat and humidity--with a crisp blue sky and a gentle breeze that rustled the deep green leaves on the trees surrounding her final resting place.
Bobby sat on a small granite bench opposite the sparkling granite headstone that had just recently been put in place. Frances M. Goren. In contrast, the headstone immediately to its right was duller -weathered from a half dozen years' worth of blistering summers and bitter winters.
He thought it ironic that his parents were together again. Oh, that's right, he reminded himself -Just one of my parents is here. I wonder where Mark Ford Brady is buried -Potter's Field? Or maybe cremated? Not buried at all.
He stared at the plush green grass and watched as a bee buzzed along from flower to flower on the bouquet that he'd placed there an hour earlier.
Another hour of his life devoted to his mother. Or were these visits really for his benefit? His twelfth Sunday in a row -12 hours devoted to pouring his heart out to grass and granite -getting no feedback in return. Still, somehow, it made him feel better. I wonder how many times Frank's been here? Maybe he comes on Saturdays? Or after I leave on Sundays? Or, probably, not at all.
With a heavy sigh, he stood up from the bench, said good-bye to his mother and headed back towards the narrow roadway that meandered through the cemetery. After passing thirty or so rows of headstones, he glanced to his left to spy the plot where Alex's husband was laid to rest. No flowers; needs weeding, he noted. Funny how in three months I've never run into her here.
I wonder how long it'll be before I stop caring, too.
The End.