The old man hobbles along the path, clutching his guitar and a bouquet of red roses. He is coming to visit her grave again.
The flowers are for her favorite color and the music is for her love of dancing. Once, he showed me a photo of her holding their grandchild, and her wrinkled face glowed with joy. I know he doesn’t see her as old though—he sees a dancing girl in a red dress skipping through the mists of time.
He places the flowers on her stone and begins to play “Spanish Harlem.”
Now, I see her too.
Written for Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge 100.
Written for Sadje’s What Do You See 64.
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