She first saw him one Sunday afternoon when she was remembering those magnolias. She had finished with the paper and was sitting as neatly as she could(angles were important to her) in the corner of the garden where all the pets were buried in rows. Each Sunday she would remember each pet and the plants above them, trying to see if the concentration involved would make her cry deeply and freely again. So she had just got to Timothy who was beneath some sprawling pink bush, when she noticed a short figure step out through the fence whistling, wearing dark muddy sandals. He nodded quickly at her and turned his head as if checking whether he had been followed. Then he strode forward and held out his more than capable hand.
‘Titus’ he suggested, in a lilting cavern-deep voice. So Maggie let out just one perfect tear and swooned. It wasn’t everyday she met a perfect Roman Soldier whilst thinking of the dead.
(What -if -indeed you might say).
So the soldier pressed his firm thumb against her cheek and caught at the lovely wetness, annointing her forehead with a sign; smiling as only lonely ghosts can once they find home.
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