She stands and begins to walk back towards him; taking her time, her black dress flowing in the breeze, her hair billowing behind her, tan arms at her sides.

His looks down at his shoe. The lace is untied. A minor, miniscule detail that could mean nothing or everything, he just can’t decide. This happened before, at his grandfather’s funeral. That same shoe, his right one; the lace always came untied. His thick fingers trembled at the sight, not out of nervousness or sorrow, as onlookers would most assuredly assume considering the circumstances, but rather out of resistance. He had blocked it all out, the weeping women, the priest’s thick, bellowing voice, the creaking of wooden pews, a distant cough echoing off barren church walls…all that existed was the lace, the imperfection, a solitary object, resting on the newly cleaned carpet. He hated that lace, that fucking goddamn lace, refusing to finish the bow that the other half had started.

The couple across the lawn had packed up, the ancient Ford truck sputtering and jerking along the path, heading towards him. The brakes began to grind as the elderly man slowed, not wanting to startle this young man, in a black suit, leaning against a black sport’s car, black sunglasses covering his black eyes. The woman looked at him, through him, a slight crack of a smile forming. The man nodded, the woman kept smiling, and the truck climbed lazily up the trail, over the hill, and out of sight.

They knew everything without having to know anything. It was written in his posture, the lone lace, his stoic face and hidden eyes of black. It was pity without being condescending, as the couple knew full well the rocky road this young man had yet to tread. They did not need to read the annals of his history, whether his mother breast-fed him or if he excelled in math. These tidbits of knowledge were inconsequential, for he was here, in a cemetery, amongst the lost, remembered, forgotten, and soon to meet again, and that was all anyone needed to know.

She stood at the edge of the lawn, the tips of her shoes resting on the ragged asphalt, her soles crushing the strands of grass. She was teetering on the edge, as she would the rest of her life, and he the same. He knew what he lacked and also what he possessed. She remained in her spot, staring, as he continued to lean.

It sat in his gut, the heat of acknowledgment and acceptance, that he would always be the one, searching for it, hunting it, yet never quite reaching it. The breeze picked up again, rushing through his hair and across his face. The hot tears ran down his cheeks, their path controlled by the week-old stubble that darkened his young skin. The sunglasses hid what he felt, but she knew what was underneath.

Staring out across the landscape, he sucked in, her arms squeezing the breath from his chest, her face buried in his muscles, her body heaving from the tears, the anger, and emptiness. He remained strong and solid, whatever she needed him to be, all the while his eyes searching through a haze of wetness, the heat turning the asphalt into water and then back again. She told him she loved him and he said it back. They both meant it and always would. Even a year later, when they drifted apart like ships separating in the rough seas, they would both think it and mean it, even when she had found what she was looking for, and he still searched, seeking purpose, that one piece of the puzzle that would forever elude him.

The crow watched from the distance, balanced on a limber branch, bobbing up and down with the direction of the breeze, eyeing the car suspiciously as it cautiously made its way down the narrow road, disappearing from sight.