Today is the anniversary of my death. My wife likes to bring me daisies, setting them on her past bouquets next to the headstone. I dangle my feet above them and study my wife instead. Their petals lay too crisply on the grass.

In comparison, my wife is faint. Her clothing tended to pastel colors, but her dress and apron are those shades of grey only the fog wears. Her eyes are light. Her skin has been whitewashed many times over. I almost moan. My wife is a pale sickness. But perhaps I am only looking through my outstretched hand.

My wife is standing; she doesn’t speak. I think our kids are grown. They have moved out of state, too busy for letters. My wife shouldn’t be too busy for letters. Yet, my wife doesn’t complain. My wife is standing, silent. My wife also sees through herself.

A car horn blares from the road, speaking for her silence. I move, stare behind my wife. We never owned a red car.

My wife turns back to the front gate. Her lightness blurs in the dusk from distance as my form blurs in her mind. I am not a memory. I am death.

I look at my feet. I never liked daisies.