A thin wind whistled mournful music across the chill, peaceful silence of the morning. Greenberg, a thin little man who was at least sixty, with pink cheeks and a huge overcoat, stood discreetly back, hands folded in front of him. Mac took a few steps toward the grave.
Behind him he heard the sound of a vehicle coming down from the cemetery gates to the turnaround where Mac had parked.
He didn't turn. He was now right next to the headstone, reading the etched words in the stone. He heard footsteps on the path, and now he did turn around. Don Flack, Aiden, Stella, and Danny were moving toward him. Stella leaned a little on Danny's arm.
'You shouldn't be out of the hospital,' Mac said as they approached.
'It's your anniversary,' Stella answered. 'Wouldn't want to miss that.'
They gathered around the grave and Mac knelt to place the flowers on it against the stone to give them a little protection from the wind.
Greenberg moved in quickly and secured the flowers with a smooth rounded rock. Then he stood up and handed each person there a small stone.
'If you like,' said Greenberg. 'It's a tradition. We place a stone of remembrance each year by the grave of a loved one.'
Mac looked at the small brown stone in his hand and placed it atop the granite tombstone. Stella, Aiden, Danny, and Flack followed. Then all except Mac stepped back.
There was nothing to say. There was nothing he needed to say. He stood for what seemed like a long time before turning and joining the others in the walk back down the path.
Stuart M Kaminsky
