The Grave Only He Knows, by Heather Robinson

He walks along the abandoned train bed, quietly, solemnly, slowing if he hears a sound. Relieved when a rabbit darts into the thick brush, or a white-tailed deer lifts its head. He worries each year that he will forget where to turn, but he never has. How could he forget? She was so tiny but so heavy in his arms. In the canvas bag he carries a grasp of fall flowers swaddled in wet newspaper and plastic wrap. He will unwrap them and lay them on the rock that covers the grave which only he knows.