I didn’t go to Marie’s funeral. It had been years since we'd talked, and our parting was bitter. I went for a walk by the dried-out creek, pushing past the river birch limbs as they swatted my back. A beaver was at the bottom, dragging logs, building a dam. Despite no water, it continued gathering pieces from all around, preparing for a great rain. I kept quiet as the scent of mint filled my nose, the way the scent of her hair did as my hands found the small of her back. I lifted a sleeve to my eyes.
Guy Cramer is a writer from east Texas whose stories have appeared in Paragraph Planet, Short Beasts, Vestal Review, Flash Frontier, and Major 7th Magazine.