Lydia

In the end, we all discover the futility of life.

Dora Anderson sits in the window seat. Bright sunbeams struggle through the tiny seams between the blinds, dust motes swirl and scatter like honey bees at the end of summer, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before winter swallows their precious flowers.

Opaque white eyes see none of it. In withered old hands is gripped a stuffed penguin, once bright green. Mr. Apple is the affectionate moniker given to him by Lydia.

She would often see Lydia and Mr. Apple walking--no, stalking--down the hallway with a flashlight, on some grand adventure. Whether it was an African safari in the kitchen or exploring an Egyptian tomb in the living room, they were inseparable.

Mr. Apple's fur had been soft and bright, then. Now, Dora can feel patches where the soft fur has rubbed off completely, and he is missing a button eye. Who knows what color his plumage is now?

Stiffly, slowly, she rises from the window seat, penguin in hand. With the aid of a guiding stick, she easily navigates through the small town. She counts her steps. One hundred and twenty down Main Street, make a left, and walk thirty-two more. A gate and latch are easily dealt with before fifteen paces right and nine forward.

She drops the pole, reaches out, finds cold, smooth stone.

Lydia Anderson
Beloved Daughter
1981-1989

She knows the inscription well. Her fingers have traveled over them for almost twenty years.

She leaves Mr. Apple leaning against the headstone, wishes Lydia "happy birthday," and picks up her guiding stick. It's time to let go.