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July 18, 1933
Sep. 25th, 2005 06:33 pmIt was a bright, sunny day with a gentle breeze in the air, unlike the day of the accident, and unlike the day the Maestra and their child were buried.
Herman walked up the gravel path just inside the cemetary gates, the sound of his shoes crunching on stones strangely dull and muffled in the open air. In his hand, he held two long-stemmed white roses tied together with a red ribbon. He set off in the direction of a single towering oak tree in the distance.
He hadn't told anybody where he was going today, except for Frankie. Not that it was a secret or anything -- he just didn't give people too many specifics. Just a reminder of what had happened a year ago.
And so with only Frankie keeping him company, he made his way down rows and rows of gravestones, most weather-worn, some gleaming and new. Some had flowers laid beside them, most had none. As Herman approached the tree, he could hear songbirds twittering in its branches. They hadn't been there a year ago.
The Maestra's grave was six plots east of the tree. But it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and the tree's shadow had not yet reached the stone.
Herman knelt down and picked up the pair of dried roses he'd left on his last visit and replaced them with the fresh ones. He blinked a few times as tears came to his eyes, maybe because of the brightness of the white granite in the sunshine, maybe because of the sadness. After a few moments, he sat back on the grass and crossed his legs, holding the withered flowers in his lap. He looked up at Frankie and patted the ground beside him.
Herman walked up the gravel path just inside the cemetary gates, the sound of his shoes crunching on stones strangely dull and muffled in the open air. In his hand, he held two long-stemmed white roses tied together with a red ribbon. He set off in the direction of a single towering oak tree in the distance.
He hadn't told anybody where he was going today, except for Frankie. Not that it was a secret or anything -- he just didn't give people too many specifics. Just a reminder of what had happened a year ago.
And so with only Frankie keeping him company, he made his way down rows and rows of gravestones, most weather-worn, some gleaming and new. Some had flowers laid beside them, most had none. As Herman approached the tree, he could hear songbirds twittering in its branches. They hadn't been there a year ago.
The Maestra's grave was six plots east of the tree. But it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and the tree's shadow had not yet reached the stone.
Herman knelt down and picked up the pair of dried roses he'd left on his last visit and replaced them with the fresh ones. He blinked a few times as tears came to his eyes, maybe because of the brightness of the white granite in the sunshine, maybe because of the sadness. After a few moments, he sat back on the grass and crossed his legs, holding the withered flowers in his lap. He looked up at Frankie and patted the ground beside him.