She stares at the stone of her husband now dead seven years. Heels sink in the soft earth; leather soles soak up moisture from the saturated soil. A dry clod from the newly dug grave soon to be filled with her father-in-law’s oak casket sticks to Swedish red granite. It covers the first letter in her late husband’s Christian name. She reaches out and flicks it away. Twenty-six years of memories and an eternity of dreams slam against her heart like a six-foot wave crashing upon the fine-grained sand of the beach back home. Tears flood her eyes; sounds of sobs bounce off maples, elms, ash but not the weeping willow. Wind whipped arms reach out and take the sounds unto itself as it has done so many times. She stands between two worlds like straddling the whitewashed fence enclosing the country church’s cemetery. Her husband of four years stands silently, behind, out of sight, nearby.