Chilled teeth chattering absentmindedly as her tear dabbed face trapped in a tattered scarf, Mary squinted through cruel flecks of salty fluid that never seemed to cease. She didn’t want to see it, but necessarily came upon the grave just as a squirrel skittered across the sodden mound. The hem of her ragged woolen skirt seemed to drag along beside her, a witness to these events that caused her such sorrow. It seemed as if the dirt mound had been scalded of all the former flowery framed tributes, and now laid naked as if to say, I’m done, take me.
The Bag Lady 
Wonderful 🙂
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Thank you C
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