skipping stones

She lived longer than she thought she would. She lived longer than she wanted to, she told friends. Now, black suits, black dresses, black coats and a bird of black observing from above the cemetery by the sea. In the midst of towering adults was a lone child. He peeked around the black suits, dresses, coats, holding his mother’s hand, then looked to the sky and saw a bird. A cold wind swirled. Then, a bark from a small dog at a tombstone nearby. The sweet dog was a loving sight for the young man. He pulled at his mother’s arm. She pulled back to convey inappropriateness. Then in a moment of surrender, the mother relented. Fingers sprung free from the grip of the day. The boy walked across the gravel path to the dog and the woman at the tombstone. The bird, now on a limb, cock its head, curious. The dog saw the little boy and pulled at his leash like the boy pulled at the mother’s hand. Life, taunt, in the midst of sadness. The woman at the tombstone collected the little dog in her arms and knelt. The dog was out of reach for the little boy. He stopped just shy of her and the tombstone. He looked over his right shoulder and again saw the bird. The bird cocked its head, curious. The little boy then reached his hand out, and placed it on the woman’s head. He looked back at the bird, then patted the woman’s head. The woman turned slowly, and smiled. The bird cocked his head, touched.