Quietus

They walked slowly, holding hands just as they always had. Jim, ever the gentleman, took the outside, watchful for cracks in the sidewalk. Callie appraised the overgrown gardens of her neighbors as they passed, the coneflowers spindly and faded, the black-eyed susans turning their sandpapery leaves to the late sun. Jim had pruned theirs this morning, while she rested in the shade. The prescription bottle lay at the bottom of her purse, the white paper bag rustling slightly with each step. She wondered if the kids had arrived yet. It would be so good to see them once more.