Going Home

He’d worn the gray suit twice before—when he married Fae, his beloved wife of 72 years and when his daughter wed the Jamieson boy.

Otherwise, Bill Hitchings wore the same uniform: faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Still did, after passing the running of the farm to his capable daughter.

And now he looked awkward in the gray suit that Fae insisted he wear.

She heard murmurs that Bill would be more comfortable in his work clothes. But some occasions don’t call for jeans and plaid. And this was one of them.

After all, Bill was going home.

Memento

The blue stuffed bear, five cars, a well-loved blankie. You left with all of them. But the cotton pants with the firetrucks—the pants you insisted on wearing every single day—I kept.

I needed to keep part of you with me, so I sent you off without them. You probably miss them.

They are more than a little worn; a testament to the miles you drove on your knees, pushing your plastic cars over quilted mountains. I put them away without washing. They still smell like you.

And when I brush them against my cheek, I hear your laughter.

Paper Flowers

Evelyn Fischer visits her son every day; shows up each morning with a basket of fresh flowers and her best trowel. As she tends his tiny garden, Evelyn updates Nathan with family news.

Prattling on about his daughter’s new tooth and his son’s school recital, she yanks out stubborn weeds that seem to spring up overnight. She digs shallow craters in the moist earth, selects new buds from her basket and replaces every fragile bloom.

I asked her once why she wastes her time planting paper flowers.

Her milky, grey eyes shifted to mine.

“Because,” she said “they can’t die.”