The wet, sliding grass caused him to take smaller steps. Not that he was in a rush to reach his destination. An assortment of flowers bunched in his hand, its fragrances blending in his nose making it difficult to determine each’s origin. Stopping, he held the bouquet tighter still not yet prepared to be there. How does one prepare for such a visit in the first place? His head bowed, a tear had been given permission to fall.
He kissed the rose in the bunch. “Hope you’re proud of me, mom” & placed the flowers on top of the stone head.