years old, recently widowed, and careful with every dollar because Social Security doesn’t leave much room for mistakes.
That afternoon would have been my forty-seventh wedding anniversary.
My husband, Frank, had been gone for eighteen months.
I still visited the cemetery regularly.
That afternoon, I brought flowers.
Benny, my fourteen-year-old Chihuahua, stood beside my shoe while I arranged them near Frank’s headstone.
Benny is blind, missing several teeth, and walks with the careful determination of a tiny old man who refuses to admit he’s getting older.
“Don’t eat the flowers,”
