Twenty-One
The cemetary was just outside Myerton, about twenty minutes from Anna’s house. I hadn’t been there since the day I left. But I knew exactly where I was going.
I parked my car not far from Joan’s grave. Up a slight rise, underneath the broad branches of a tall oak tree covered in golds, reds, browns, and oranges, was the white marble headstone. Simple, tasteful. “Joan Greer, 1980-2009. Loving Wife and Daughter.” Anna had done a good job picking it out. I had let Joan stay buried under the tree, her final resting place, unmarked for two months after her funeral. I couldn’t bear to think about it. So her mom had commissioned the stone.
I saw it for the first time when I left.
I walked up to her along the path I’d taken in leaving her ten years earlier. Fallen leaves crunched u
