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.