Dear Annie,
Yesterday, the day after the funeral, I stopped at the diner on River Street.
The waitress had a tip jar with a note taped to it. Scotch tape, handwritten: 'Every start is a small goodbye.' I read it twice.
I had an old seed packet in my jacket pocket. Nasturtiums, plant-by date last April. It was your mother's joke. She gave it to me before she died, said 'plant these when you're ready.'
The waitress poured coffee. I slid a five into the jar. She nodded at the packet. 'Starting a garden?' I said 'Maybe today.'
That was the first time I said it out loud. The beginning of something I'll never get to live again — the first day after the last funeral.
I wanted to tell you. I'm writing this instead.