Clusters of pink flowers, fresh every day, marked Myra's grave for ten years, since 1913.  Edward brought them, celebrating his love for Myra. Edward was a hard worker, working 12-hour days, seven days a week.  And no matter how late he arrived, how much brandy he drank, Myra was waiting, hot meals on the table, homemade bread, and coconut meringue pie.

"You know how much I love you?"

"Sure," he'd tell her.

"Honey, why not come home early tomorrow?  We'll do something special."

"We'll see," he'd promise.  But it never happened, even though he thought of those lips, full and red. Sometimes he'd show up an hour or two later, just to put her in her place.

Edward's brother hosted a fancy birthday party for his girlfriend Darlene at the Willowbrook.  Everyone was there and not one person asked about Myra.

Myra wept for hours, locked in the bedroom when she heard about the party.  Edward took off hours early from work, bought Darlene flowers, even a box of chocolates.  Too busy for Myra, but not for everyone else.

Myra left a note, apologizing for any inconvenience.  Table set, bread warm, a pot of stew on the stove.  In her note--only the depth of her love, her thoughts of afterlife, and her wish for pink carnations. 

Sometimes Edward thought he heard Myra cry, even though he came home early and  brought her flowers every day. Edward hoped she watched from the other side, even though it was too late.