Le Coeur au Bonheur

In spring, summer, autumn, there are flowers to put on her grave. Now, in winter, only my tears spill onto the gray marble that marks where she sleeps. The snow spreads in light feathers on my shoulders and my bare white head as I kneel on the wet earth, missing her and longing for her.

It's been years: the children have grown and left, though they do visit. I am lonely, and all I have left of her are memories my mind tries to erase with age, and this stone. There are some things I can recall; her fingers twined with mine, our dreams together. Our dreams did come true, but now I must try to remember them alone. How much I would give to have her back; how much matters so much less.

Instead, I must content myself with sitting between her and her father, tracing my aged, stiff, cold fingers alone over the inscription of her name, whispering it to the frosty winds.


Cosette, my darling, beloved wife, I wish you were here. I can forget words you said to me, but I cannot forget you. I shall always love you.

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