She walked more slowly now.
I noticed her steps were more hesitant, more calculated than when she visited a few weeks ago, and though I had walked beside her on the grass, panting under an unusually warm winter sun, she had barely noticed me, so concentrated on the path before her that everything else seemed to slip out of thought.
Image by jimmedia
She barely made a sound as she shuffled past the reflective headstones and statues of angels with upturned hands. She knew exactly where she was going, a path she’d made for herself only three months ago on her first trip out here. She’d come with friends to smoke up – “they’re dead, they don’t care,” Bobby had said – but she told him to shut up and inched closer to the plain headstone that had caught her eye. Soon, she found herself returning week after week, weaving the same trail among the plots.
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