I never saw Shawn Spencer again.
I visited Juliet a couple of times a year—every year.
Her birthday—a day that marked both her birth and her death. My birthday. Christmas. Easter. The odd Saturday that I had off and was feeling particularly melancholy.
And one Halloween, though that was more impromptu than intentional since some kids were causing trouble in the cemetery and I was on duty. After we chased them off I stopped by since I was there and . . .
I wasn't the only one to visit. Guster came on occasion, too.
We never spoke when we met there, though we were cordial enough when we happened upon each other elsewhere.
Someone else too, though according to Gus he was all over the country again, postcards with obscure mailing locations that would show up every once in a while proving his nomadic journey had yet to end.
But it was certainly Shawn who left a single pale lavender rose laying along the top of her headstone, a note tucked underneath that said in his messy scrawl simply: I miss you.
