I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

Nurse Ella dies at the peak of spring. Breast cancer. She was 52
years old.
Flowers surface where she is buried. Her headstone arches from the
ground surrounded by them, as if the buds bloomed to read her
name.
Sam sits against the unchiseled side facing the trees. He twirls stalks
of grass, pulling them out. A single finger digs at the soil.
“Sam,” I say, crouched in front of him.
He opens his eyes, his mask shrouding the bags and ugly color
beneath them. I hold out a newspaper I stole from the dispenser.
“Do you want to read to her?” I ask.
Sam shakes his head, moving aside and patting the ground next to
him.
“You read it,” he says, his throat sore and tired.
“Alright.”
I sit against Ella’s headstone, a cold and tough thing. It feels like Ella
holds us this way. A ghost of her. Grunting in displeasure that we’ll
get green stains on our pants and that no sweaters shield our
shoulders.
I open the paper and start reading the first headline about the
recently constructed bridge uniting the river that split the city in two.
Sam drops his head to my shoulder. He listens till he falls asleep,
silent tears streaming down his cheeks.
—
The coming warmth alleviates Sam’s sorrow as time passes.