The plaster off; Glen walked strangely, as if he wanted to limp. He took the bus to Rosemary City Cemetery where Stan lay buried. Glen wanted to be with Stan.

The unending drizzle and the overcast sky couldn't bring gloom to Glen's face. Yes, there was a sense of loss, a sense of regret and grief. But there was also a sense of resolve.

"Resolve? Resolve about what?" he asked himself. He didn't know. He didn't want to know. Maybe it wasn't resolve; it was an escape, justifying the loss.

The drenched trees drooped to the ground. The bus stopped. The path was empty. He looked up; there was a glow behind the gray clouds, or maybe he was imagining it. The clock said 12:53. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and proceeded.

The smell of the wet mud suppressed the smell of freshly mowed grass. Crows sat on trees in the mist looking at him. They seemed unusually and awfully quiet. Yes, somebody had died, mourn, they said. The drops plopped on Glen's umbrella, each after every second.

He saw an overcoat kneeling beside a grave. It had a hat on too. He moved closer. The Widower (Glen presumed) peered at him. He had bags under his eyes and hadn't shaved recently. Glen was sure he would smell booze if he went closer.

The Widower pointed out the grave to Glen. It said 'WILMA RENTON, expired 19.09.1999.' No message describing her or the Widower. The Widower mumbled something.

"What? Sorry, I didn't get you," Glen apologized.

"Didtcha bring any flowers?" repeated the Widower.

"No… uh… I'm sorry…" Glen apologized again.

"Then getcha sorry ass outta here," spat out the Widower.

Glen hurried away. He could jog a bit now, he discovered. He stopped at a fork. Which way? Where was Stan's grave?

Glen tried to inhale deeply; it didn't help.

There was another figure coming at him. Black overcoat this one too. A black umbrella and a black hat; he saw now. He searched his jacket for the quart of whisky. He sipped as the face became clear to Glen.

"Hi!" greeted Glen, exhaling deeply for the first time.

Bertha's disbelieving eyes seemed to ask, "Why are you here, Glen? And now?" But she hugged him.

A crow cawed in the distance. Glen held on to her tightly. He wiped her tears.

"Don't cry," Glen looked into her eyes that floated in her tears.

She stopped. He took a sip and sought comfort. He got it. He looked at the sky; the glow was more prominent now.

Glen visited Stan's grave and sat there for a while. Bertha stood some yards behind him.

The concrete was hard, though wet. The rain and Bertha's tears had drenched Glen but he was determined to stand, hard as concrete.
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