He places the lilies underneath her name. Somehow the thought crept that one day, perhaps one hundred years in the future, the granite will start to erode. Maybe the kudzu would get it? Tombstones aren’t forever. Okay, he thinks. I’ll go where gators snatch children from father’s arms, where families sometime whisper to each other in Spanish, where sinkholes sometimes devour backyards.
But he doesn’t pack for Florida. He goes to sleep, clutching a photograph. A lily tucked in her hair.
The same dream of fire, as always.