I found myself thinking—as one does, at a certain age—that I’d rather like to have a funeral like this. Outdoors, among friends and family, with people who’d known me, whom I’d served for years. A sense of deep sorrow, yes, but a deeper sense of solemnity, not at odds with sunlight and the deep green breath of the nearby forest.

Everyone stood silent as the last shovelful of dirt was cast on the heaped grave. Roger nodded to the children, huddled mute and shocked around their father, each clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers. Brianna had helped them pick the flowers—and Mandy had of course insisted on making her own bouquet, a loose handful of pink-tinged wild clover and grass gone to seed.

Rachel stood quiet, next to Bobby Higgins. She gently picked up his limp hand and put a small bunch of the tiny white daisy-like flowers of fleabane into it. She whispered something in his ear, and he swallowed hard, looked down at his sons, and then walked forward to lay the first flowers on Amy’s grave, followed by Aidan, the little boys, Jem, Germain, and Fanny—and Mandy, frowning in concentration on doing it right.

Others stopped briefly by the grave, touching Bobby’s arms and back, murmuring to him. People began to disperse, drifting back toward home, work, dinner, normality, grateful that for now, death had passed them by, and vaguely guilty in their gratitude. A few lingered, talking quietly to one another. Rachel had appeared again beside Bobby—she and Bree had been taking it in unspoken turn not to leave him alone.

Then it was our turn. I followed Jamie, who didn’t say anything. He took Bobby by the shoulders and tilted his head so they stood forehead-to-forehead for a moment, sharing grief. He lifted his head then and shook it, squeezed Bobby’s shoulder, and stood aside for me.

“She was beautiful, Bobby,” I whispered, my throat still thick, after all the tears already shed. “We’ll remember her. Always.”

He opened his mouth, but there weren’t any words. He squeezed my hand hard and nodded, tears oozing unheeded. He’d shaved for the burying, and raw spots showed red and scraped against his pallid skin.

We walked slowly down the trail toward home. Not speaking, but touching each other lightly as we went.

As we neared the garden, I paused.

“I’ll—get some—” I waved vaguely toward the palisades. What? I wondered. What could I pick or dig up, to make a poultice for a mortal wound to the heart?

Jamie nodded, then took me in his arms and kissed me. Stepped back and laid a hand against my cheek, looking at me as though to fix my image in his mind, then turned and went on down.

In truth, I didn’t need anything from the garden, save to be alone in it.