I was glad to have known you, she said to the tombstone. Wildflowers and weeds grew around it. The woman placed a coffee mug in front of the marker.

Brought your favorite cup, she said. Pictures of her grandkids were on it; the boy on one side, girl on the other. Missing teeth. Smiling. I brought flowers too, she told the piece of concrete. The daughter placed them on top. They kept falling off; her hands trembled. There, she told the rock, pushing the yellow tulips down, Hope you like these, a cardinal flew by.

The woman kissed the tombstone and hugged it. She held it with her two hands. I miss you, mom. You went too soon, she said. Oh, well. God has a plan, she said. Don’t know what that is sometimes. I never do, really. Things just kind of happen. Like you getting sick with cancer. Never saw that coming, she patted her mother’s name. Traced the letters with her bony fingers. I’ll see you one day, mom. Streets of gold. A mansion on the hill.

She waved goodbye to the tombstone.