He sits on Swedish granite staring at the train that slowly passes. He wonders if she will come up and sit on the slab of Swedish granite, too, or if she will continue the contrariness she practiced so well for all those years they sat on wooden chairs, leaned on a wooden table in the kitchen and smelled her mother’s homemade bread back before the chemicals crept inside the wheat seeds to stay even longer than she will stay obstinately beneath the Swedish granite headstone he picked out because of his heritage. Maybe she’s angry because of the granite. Is there a variety of Dutch granite? Would she come sit next to him then and watch and listen to the train moving slowly past the cemetery, just the two of them with an uneasy peace, still?