She pops the red flag up, glancing over her shoulder as she does. They all do. She looks at the sky and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes.

It’s Jack I feel bad for. A postal worker in life, he didn’t know he’d be required to continue his courier services by death.

When she’s gone, I collect the letters, one from her to "Mrs. Virginia Anders" and two others. Mrs. Anders is her mom. Or is it was? I’m never sure on these things. I know this because this is her third letter to leave. The first was tentative. "I miss you and love you." You could tell she didn’t know where this was going. The second letter was needier. "I could use you this week! What do I tell him?"

I steam the envelope to her third letter and carefully peel open the flap. She’s angry, oh so angry! "How could you leave me!" she says. In spots, the writing smudges. The color of the ink distends into this circles with ragged edges. The paper’s wrinkled.

Then I do something I’ve never done with any of the letters. I add a note at the bottom. "Mrs. Anders," I write. "Please don’t worry. I’ll take care of her." I refold the letter, return it to the envelope, and glue the flap shut again. Then I take it and the rest of the letters in a metal bowl to John’s gravesite. I light a match and watch them burn like I have for two years now. It’s not in my job description.

The letter in my pocket crinkles when I lie on my back. I pick out a few constellations and wonder about the families of Orion and Gemini. I ask them, Is this right? Will the gods punish me for this? But it doesn’t matter if they do or don’t, so I take the letter and slip it in the mailbox.

It’s almost a week before she comes back. She rifles through the other letters in the mailbox. They all do. No one expects anything, but they hope. You can tell. I know when she sees my letter. Everything in her body halts like she was hit by a sting ray gun. She looks around, but no one else is in this section of the cemetery right now, and pulls the letter out, pocketing it almost before I can see she has it. She starts to put in her letter, but stops. Instead, she leaves with it.

Later that afternoon, she comes to me. I’m in the backhoe, digging another gravesite. My stomach does some sort of basketball play, running every which way. Her facial expression could mean anything. I jump out of the tractor and wipe my hands.

"Yes," she whispers. I can barely hear her, but I know that’s what she says because the next instant, she’s in my arms.

This little diddy was jotted down as part of a writing contest put on by my blogging friend, Tina at Spaghetti Pie. She snapped the picture at a cemetary. This is what came to mind when I saw it.