She hastened to remind herself that losing a son or daughter was devastating. But in his affections she had always taken second place to her mother-in-law. It had been three years, and while she had mourned her husband’s death and missed his company, there were no tears left. He was too young, she said for the thousandth time. Margaretta slipped a lace-edged hankie from the hidden pocket of her emerald-green dress and dabbed her eyes. Josephine Randolph knelt and pulled a fledgling weed from beside the flat piece of granite engraved with her husband’s name. His spirit had gone on to be with the Lord, but her mother-in-law insisted that Sunday afternoons were for paying respects to the dead. Only her husband’s physical body lay beneath the lush grass in the fenced-in cemetery behind the tiny white church.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |