May 29, 1980

The morning was bright and already uncomfortably warm. Puffs of cottonwood white hung lightly in the still, humid air. We pulled over to the edge of the dusty road and stopped the car.
"Why are we stopping here?" asked the short person.
"I need a picture of a cemetery."
"Why?" she asked climbing from the front seat.
I walked ahead and didn't answer.
"Why do you need a picture here?"
"It's Memorial Day," I said, focusing on a crumbled gravestone, its markings almost smooth from the sanding of one hundred Kansas summers.
"Who put the flowers there?"
The shutter clicked and we started back for the car. Birds in the trees surrounding the cemetery were disrespectfully noisy. "People come on Memorial Day to honor people they knew who have died."
"Why do they bring flowers?"
"It's a sign that someone still remembers. I suppose people bring flowers because they add some color and life. It wouldn't really pay to bring a steak sandwich, would it?" Me feeble attempt at levity brought no response. "You'll bring flowers to my grave, won't you?"
Ignoring my words she looked across the yard, studded with grey monuments and now sprinkled with brilliant spring flowers, and said, "It does look pretty, but I don't think they care." I took it she meant the cemetery's inhabitants.
"You're probably right."
We got into the car and headed north toward other duties. The cemetery was forgotten. Or at least I thought it was.
Well down the road she turned and said, "I think I'll bring you a steak sandwich Dad."
We both smiled.... ~T.Stucky