They had lived a good life.
In love, before they knew the words, the acceleration, the rush, the declaration to the sun, the moon and the stars.
It had come easily, slowly, softly, like tipper tapper of the rain on the tin roof and a pot of hot soup tricking drop by drop hushing the heat to stop the burn but through the storms and the calms they danced to the sound of two heartbeats echoing each other.
Love in its simplest form nestled in ritualism and traditions.
She found a lump on her left breast.
He suffered a heart attack and was pronounced dead..
The funeral director told the daughter and the son that their parents had purchased two burial plots 15 years prior, numbers 3 and 4.
The brother looked at the sister numb and indecisive.
Which one would be their father's final resting place..
She thought for a moment and said, ‘Three is before four, he should have plot number three’
He was buried 3 days later.
After two years of battling cancer, life became meaningless and she didn’t care to fight the hallowed emptiness of a shell.
She was buried in plot number four.
He died in March,
She died in April.
Three and Four.