She stands quietly in the pew, in her grey pea coat and pink Mary Janes, sorting hymnal books.
There are wildflowers. A trumpeter plays Silent Night.
At the cemetery she finds a fallen American flag among the brown leaves. I root it in the dirt, upright and sturdy, next to the headstone.
Driving home through snow squalls, the sun sinks purple and hot pink. A murmuration of starlings rises above the tree line and sweeps across the sky.
(Post 306 of 365)