The path through the woods behind the house is a worn dirt rut I know by heart. Not even last night’s snowfall can hide it from feet that move on their own, turning this way and that. Over creek rocks and between swishing pines that brush my coat like the car wash in town, my feet know the way.
A low branch, heavy with snow and ice, is out of place and, if not for the sun sparkling off it, I almost walk into it.
It reminds me of your lips after eating sugar cookies. They were sparkly with sugar when I stole that first kiss from you and it makes me smile as I step into the clearing and two feet of perfect snow. Not even a set of deer tracks mark it.
Pretty as a postcard but a deal’s a deal.
I brush away snow with my gloves until I feel it beneath frozen fingers. I pull a sugar cookie from my pocket, lay it next to the stone’s etched words, “Maggie Thompson” and sit down next to you to eat another.
“Every day for the rest of my life, sweetheart.”