So I cut several roses off the bush with the pruning shears, hold them by their stems carefully so I don’t prick myself, smell them and I still can’t get a smell out of them, and lay them out on the stones. Again, I don’t know why. Maybe because — did I say this? — I’ve never put flowers there before. Never put flowers on any grave before, and it seems I should have with this one. I think my daughters did once or twice. And then they must have removed them after they’d been there a long time or the dried flowers blew away if they didn’t get washed away by the rain before they dried. So many of my actions since she died have been for no good reason. I just think of doing it and do it and wonder why I did it. Maybe I should have put the flowers in a bud vase. There are a couple of them in the house, in a bottom kitchen cabinet where all the vases of various sizes are — several of the larger ones were delivered with flowers in them soon after she died — and stand it up in the ground between the inner circle of stones and the stone in the center. Put water in the vase before I put the flowers in it and stand it up in the ground wedged between two stones. Why? Why’s that better than laying the flowers across the stones? Did I say it was better? No. I was just wondering, that’s all. I step back and look at the grave. Looks pretty. Pink flowers and gray stems against the mostly white and light-gray stones. So I did something now I’ve never done, or don’t think I have. What of it? I say “I’m going to be silly again, my darling, and talk a little to you. It’s about your grave. I put flowers on the marker, which is made solely of stones gathered by us and the kids at Schoodic Point. Remember how we used to go there almost every summer when we were in Maine? Spend about an hour there, just looking at the water, and then go to the beach near the point where all the polished stones were, collect a few of what we thought were the best ones, and then go to the same restaurant in town closest to the point. Great fishburgers and haddock and chowder and cole slaw. Nothing better. We always looked forward to that lunch. Fried clams and French fries and lobster and crab rolls and onion rings too. ‘Anybody hungry?’ I’d say. ‘Yeah’ we all said, or the kids and I did; you usually said ‘You bet.’ I’ve mentioned this before, how one of my most repeated expressions for years became one of yours, when you’d never said it before, to the point where I stopped saying it anymore. Anyway, a cylindrically-shaped container of your remains is under the grave marker, which is solely composed of these ocean-polished beach stones. Just what you wanted to hear, I know. They’re in the best container the funeral home had, or the better of the two I chose to choose from. And I’m not telling you this to show what a sport your husband was. Both choices I had were made of strong cardboard, or maybe some other paper product even stronger, though both would eventually disintegrate in the ground, the funeral director said. But the container I got will last around ten years, compared to the cheaper container, which would fall apart in a year, he said. It could be he was telling me this to jack up the cost of the cremation. I was, as I’m sure most grieving spouses are, especially on the same day their husband or wife died — vulnerable — more easily persuadable and he of course knew that and took advantage of it, although maybe he was leveling with me. I want to be fair. Just going over the choices, not pushing me. I really forget. He seemed okay, though that could be part of their act too: sympathy and sincerity. I didn’t mean to get into all that. But to finish: there was also a steel container, cylindrically-shaped and same length and dimensions of the other containers. But I was just shown a photograph of it, unlike the others, and I never considered buying it, vulnerable as I said I was. When I heard the price — I’ll be honest with you — I said ‘No way. Not worth it.’ Or just shook my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned this. Because steel could have been what you wanted, though we never talked about it. All we talked about for either of us was cremation or burial, and we both went for cremation. We never talked about what we’d do with the remains, though. The steel one, by the way, came to more than a thousand dollars, while the one I got cost about two hundred. And the flimsiest container. . well, price never came up. I doubt they even charge for it. It’d come with the ashes, I’d think, because they’d have to put them in something when they gave them to you. They can’t just stick them in a paper bag for you to take home. I also remember thinking at the time that the stronger of the two cardboard containers was better than the steel one. Not because it was way less expensive but because it’ll disintegrate and become part of the earth, like ashes will, while the steel container will probably stay steel forever, or something close to that. I wouldn’t want the next owner of the house, meaning after I die and the kids sell it, since I doubt they’ll want to live there or keep it. Or the owner after that owner — in other words, someone we don’t know and who doesn’t know about the ashes we have buried out there — digging in that area one day and coming upon the steel container and wondering what it is. Unless he’s in the funeral business, I doubt he’d know. And maybe even think there could be something valuable inside — jewels, coins: who knows? — and try to open it, though I think those things are sealed for good. Even the container I got is apparently unopenable once it’s sealed, unless you want to tear through it with a saw or butcher’s knife. You see what I mean, though, right? But enough. Too much, in fact. I shouldn’t talk like this, though I know you can’t hear me. Though if you can, and of course you can’t, then know that I’m now going to stop talking as if I’m talking to you and weed the few weeds on your grave marker and then go inside.” I get down on one knee, weed the grave marker and a little of the area around it, and go inside the house. The pruning shears. I don’t remember putting them back in the pail in the carport with the rest of the smaller gardening tools. But I don’t want to go outside again today. I’ll look for it tomorrow. I’d hate to have misplaced it. It was very expensive, for a clipper, and very useful, and the best of the three or four I have.
Just What Is
He sees her at a restaurant. He’s with his two closest friends and she’s sitting down with an older woman and a child three tables away. He says to the couple “Someone I know. My favorite grad student, ever. Haven’t seen her since before Abby died. That’s how I divide things in my life. B.A. and A.A. Excuse me,” and he gets up and goes over to her. “Oh my goodness,” she says, and stands up and puts her arms out and they hug. “You remember him,” she says to the woman. “My old writing professor. Philip Seidel. You met at the reception after the diploma ceremony. Jesus. Almost fourteen years ago.” She introduces him to her mother and says the child is her sister’s son. “I have him for two weeks while she’s in China.” He says “How you doing, and how’s Claude?” and she says “We’re in the midst of getting a divorce.” “I’m sorry,” and she says “Don’t be. It’s fine. But also don’t tell me you thought we were the last couple on earth to ever get divorced.” “Why would I? What do I know what’s going on between two people, married or not?” “Hey,” she says. “I heard from Whitney and Evelyn that the launch event for your new book at the Ivy was a smash.” “You mean a debacle.” “No, they said you had a big crowd, more people than chairs, and the pieces you read were perfect and the Q and A went well too. I wanted to go but I was teaching that night. I haven’t bought the book yet but I will.” “Don’t bother. You know. . sometimes I think my work’s only meant to be written, not read. I’d send you a copy, because the publisher did such a beautiful job on it — the looks. I just know they’re going to win design awards for it — but I only have two left, one with the corrections to all the typos and the other to keep in pristine shape in my bookcase. I can also imagine how busy you must be with everything and also have lots on your mind. How are your kids?” “They’re taking it pretty well.” “That’s good. Listen,” he says, “we should meet for lunch or just for coffee one day.” “I’d like that. Let me get your phone number.” “First one to pull out his pen gets to call the other,” and he takes a pen out of his pants pocket, piece of folded-up paper out of his pants back pocket and says “So give it.” She does and then says “After the holidays. I am pretty busy till then.” “After. That’d be great. Can’t wait. Lunch, so we have enough time to talk.” They hug, he says to her mother “Nice to meet you again. And you too, little guy,” to her nephew. “What are you going to have for lunch?” and the kid says “Chicken salad sandwich.” “Good choice,” and he goes back to the table. “Sorry for holding you up,” he says to the couple. “She was maybe the best student writer I ever had, and it was such a treat seeing her again. I loved having her in my class and fought off my colleagues to be her advisor. She didn’t say anything about Abby. Maybe she was being discreet. Or I have seen her since Abby died, but a while ago. That must be the case. And I think I even remember getting a condolence card from her, none of which I ever thanked the senders for. She looks a lot like Abby, wouldn’t you say? Though that’s not why I always liked her.” The woman says “Abby was gorgeous. This woman’s only cute.”