by Thomas Laird
“She’s good people, bud.”
Those are his complete words of wisdom on the subject of Natalie. Except for: “She’s too goddam good for you, of course.”
He follows all that with a vicious smile.
I visit Celia’s grave. And Erin’s. But I visit them both mentally more often because I’m becoming less and less a fan of tombstones. I see enough death during my tours with Doc, each shift. I much prefer to revisit my wife and Celia in my memory. I recall them as they were when they were with me. It still pangs inside, but it’s nowhere near as empty a feeling as going to a churchyard and visiting with a block of granite with a name and a few dates stencilled on it.
I’ve had it wrong all along, I finally understand. I’m supposed to serve the living, not the dead. The dead are all right. We here are the ones who need a shitload of help.
I place the flowers on the graves of the two women. I pray for them every chance
I get.
But I bring flowers to Natalie every time we meet, too, and it’s worth the price of a ticket to see her eyes when she catches the scent of my offerings and when she looks up at me to protest about all the money I waste on these bouquets that I present her.
“Jimmy, you really should have,” Natalie laughs.
She bends down and takes in the fragrance again. Then her green eyes glance back up toward me. She radiates at me once more, and that scent of yellow roses comes wafting right my way, right at me.
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