Small Places : Nick L Belardes [108 of 128]

• Memories flood of her moving against me. My stomach churns in an agonizing twist. My mouth barely forms words: "When, Joan? When?"
• "Last night. Just after work," she says. My head hurts. My heart hurts. It beats and pushes blood that pulses, stings, throbs.
• With each second my fragile heart hurts more and more. It beats harder in my chest until drums pound a deafening death march.
• Thirty-five
• Outside the funeral home a sea of cars seem to have washed ashore. Palm trees droop leafy heads like shadowy gatekeepers.
• Surrounding the red-brick walls, rosebushes seem to playfully stretch, mocking the finality of the place.
• In the distance, flat cemetery lots are covered with manicured lawns and lined with dark green hedgerows. Nearby, a crowd gathers.
• I watch Joan and a group of women make their way toward each other. Buildicon workers gather like flocks of grey, dark-eyed waterfowl.