Epitaph

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Mrs. Simpson finally noticed him on the third day. He'd been there before; standing in the amber shadows where the wooden overhang of a Cape Cod roof met the milkweed and thistle of the local lot. That it was milkweed and thistle she was sure of-gardening was her passion and it had taught her the virtues of careful observation. But her powers of observation had proved lacking-after all, she'd noticed him now, but he'd been there before. He smacked of familiarity, of something already seen, if not already noted.

She pointed him out to her husband, who peered at him through the kitchen window, then went back to the refrigerator with all deliberate speed.

"So?" was all he said, almost out of the corner of his mouth, a characteristic he'd inherited from his latest and most severe stroke, which had laid him up over half a year and left him sluggish, apathetic, and irritable.

Yes. So? It was a sound question, one she pondered on and off for the rest of the day and a good part into the night.

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