My hand was steady.Study Anatomy
There’s one more thing I need to tell you.
Three weeks after I got home, Daniel came to the house on a Saturday morning with two cups of coffee and a shovel.
“Come on, Mom,” he said. “Get your coat.”
He drove me to Fairview Cemetery. I walked from the car to Robert’s grave with my cane, slowly. Daniel held my elbow.
Robert’s headstone is simple. Gray granite. Robert James Whitmore. 1942–2014. Beloved husband, father, grandfather.Get Marriage Tips
Daniel knelt down in front of it and started digging a small hole beside the stone with the shovel.
“What are you doing?”
“Planting something,” he said.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little paper packet. Daffodil bulbs.
“Dad always planted daffodils in October,” Daniel said. “Remember? Along the front walk. He said you plant them in the fall and forget about them, and then in spring they come up anyway. He said it’s the closest thing to a promise you can put in the ground.”
