Agnes shuffled
across Main Street to visit her husband.
“Brought you some flowers, dear.
I’m afraid these are from the IGA.
The tulips won’t come out and the daffodils popped up early and died in
the frost, fragile things.” She set her offering, a small bouquet of yellow roses,
against the headstone which bore the unremarkable inscription: Nicholas
Mansfield: 1924-2001. Agnes had always regretted not putting more onto the
headstone. But a smooth piece of granite couldn’t contain all the details that
made up her husband’s life. And so, she’d left them out, much to the chagrin of
her children.
For more on Agnes, Click here.
This post was written in response to Velvet Verbosity's weekly prompt: Fragile in 100 words. This is a bit more of an old novel that I've put away for awhile.
Labels: Fiction, Velvet Verbosity