“She’s good people, bud.”
Those are his complete words of wisdom on the subject of Natalie. Except for: “She’s too goddam good for you, of course.”
He follows all that with a vicious smile.
I visit Celia’s grave. And Erin’s. But I visit them both mentally more often because I’m becoming less and less a fan of tombstones. I see enough death during my tours with Doc, each shift. I much prefer to revisit my wife and Celia in my memory. I recall them as they were when they were with me. It still pangs inside, but it’s nowhere near as empty a feeling as going to a churchyard and visiting with a block of granite with a name and a few dates stencilled on it.
I’ve had it wrong all along, I finally understand. I’m supposed to serve the living, not the dead. The dead are all right. We here are the ones who need a shitload of help.
I place the flowers on the graves of the two women. I pray for them every chance
I get.
But I bring flowers to Natalie every time we meet, too, and it’s worth the price of a ticket to see her eyes when she catches the scent of my offerings and when she looks up at me to protest about all the money I waste on these bouquets that I present her.
“Jimmy, you really should have,” Natalie laughs.
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