I introduce him to my parents, but of course all he thinks is that I'm talking to a stone. He squirms to get down again to the sharp, hot grass. I begin to cry harder, and to shake. When I was a kid, I used to hate getting hauled around to hot cemeteries in the woods, left to run between stones while the grown-ups fiddled with pots of flowers. Once a piece of an old white concrete headstone fell on me and scratched my cheek.
Cemeteries are no places for kids.
She knows that Maine is a long way from New York, that this spot in the shade of a small tree is a long way from where we live our life. Alex and Jill head off again. I return the milk jug to the tap. I'm unsure what else I should be doing. I'm still sobbing and I can't stop.