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S T O R Y

John Nelson, Arm Vase – Photograph

have happened to anyone. At that high a speed, the spinout crushed the pas-

senger side, and the car was not found until the following morning.

Two years later, the man is driving the Prelude. Morning is spreading into

the sky, amber dawn crawling over the horizon, and the snow-covered ground

shines bright back into the cloudless air. Shortly after the sun fully comes over

the mountains and hangs contentedly over the valley, Ben arrives. He gets out

of his car, one hand on the roof to deliberately pull himself out, and stands. His

legs are weak and no one has shoveled the grounds this morning, but he did

not come to wait. Ben goes to the trunk and pulls out a bouquet of asphodels,

brilliant white stars like snowflakes. He limps up the mausoleum steps and

kneels before an inscribed monument, laying down the flowers. In his thin

shirt and jeans, he shifts his weight and sits on the snow-covered granite. He

folds his hands together, puts his head down, and talks to the stone, his breath

visible in the morning light. His chest shudders and he smiles. “I made it. I’m

here for you now,” he says aloud, then pauses. “We’ll get there.” The wind does

not notice.