She stopped, and we set down the water. She looked over to a grave.
"He died last year," she said. In front of his grave was a lush flower garden. She bent down to pull a few weeds.
"We lived in a small apartment nearby," She said. "He always wanted to give me a garden." I told her I was sorry for her loss.
"Don't be, dear," she said. "I loved him enough to want him to go first. I was always better at handling the difficulties."
She smiled wide. "He was better at the lighter side of life. He may be gone but not everything is gone. He left me with enough good memories to see me through until it's my time."
— Paris Letters, Macleod