"Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?"
"Bury?" I turned, away from the window overlooking the backyard, where a white fence blocked off the neglected garden. There were sprigs of flowers blooming again, spring just beginning after the long snowy February. My husband stared at me with wide eyes and a cautious smile.
I responded after a beat. "I haven't been to the garden since...you know..."
The cautious smile turned into a frown, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Right. Since Angie passed away."
He stepped forward and reached out to hold my hand. I tried to smile reassuringly, squeezing it. "Don't worry about me. It was years ago. But I haven't been in the garden since, so..." I met his gaze. "I wasn't there to bury anything."
"Then..." not letting go of my hand, he looked outside. "Who did I see there this morning?"
I felt my stomach drop. "What do you mean?"
"...There was a woman there in the morning, your build, brown hair, everything, right down to your purple raincoat. I assumed you started planting again, that you'd gotten over it. She was holding something, a cloth, and I couldn't see what she was holding but she lowered it into the ground. I just..." he gulped audibly. "I thought it was you."
"Not at all."
We stared out the window. My husband's hand was wrapped tight around mine. "Then who was she?"
YOU ARE READING
Madrugada
Short StoryAmanda copes with pain and angst that comes with a breakup. Mallory balances the feelings of an entire family. And James tries to visit an old friend...who is now in prison. A series of flash-fiction pieces from my college courses and beyond.
