I faced her.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve taken his flowers.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
I folded my arms close to my chest.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Since a few weeks after his funeral.”
“Why?”
She gestured toward the white covering.
“May I show you?”
After I nodded, she lifted the fabric, revealing a small rectangular resin block. Layers of dried yellow, white, and pale-blue petals were sealed inside, threaded by a thin blue ribbon.
I recognized it before I had even taken in the rest of the arrangement. The color and narrow width were unmistakable. I’d fastened that ribbon around the very first flowers I’d taken to Edward’s grave after the funeral. It came from an aging spool in my sewing drawer. My hands shook so badly that I’d tied two knots. A week later, the ribbon disappeared. I’d searched near the headstone, certain the wind had blown it into the grass.
Now it was preserved behind clear resin, its edges a little faded. I reached toward it, hesitated, and leaned closer through gathering tears.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered.
Monica ran a thumb along the workbench.
“From his grave.”
For months, I’d imagined the ribbon caught among weeds beyond the cemetery fence. Instead, it had been stored here.
“Why would you take that?” I asked.
“I wanted to preserve it.”
“For whom?”
She lowered her gaze.
“For you, eventually.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know Edward.”
“No.”
“Then why would you think you had the right?”
She offered no response. I turned back toward the keepsake and spotted a tiny dark blemish near the ribbon’s end. I’d accidentally made that ink mark while writing a grocery list. That familiar, accidental stain settled any uncertainty. There was absolutely no doubt it belonged to us.
My fingertips brushed the wooden box. Beneath the block lay a folded sheet, yellowing around the edges. I recognized my own handwriting before unfolding it.
During my second visit after the funeral, I’d tucked a message among Edward’s flowers because I couldn’t bear saying it aloud. On a scrap from my kitchen table, I’d written:
The kitchen is too quiet without your radio on, Eddie.
That single sentence brought back the little portable radio he played whenever he repaired anything at my house. He favored old rock music and sang terribly. I’d sometimes complained about the racket. Now I would have given anything to hear it again.
Holding the note to my coat, I began sobbing. Monica stood silently beside the table. Eventually, I folded the paper and confronted her.
“Did you read this?”
After a pause, she admitted it.
“Yes.”
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