The Picnic

I took her to the field, the one where we once had our first kiss and would now have another first. Yellow daisies were in bloom, and the red tablecloth spread out on the lush grass made the scene comically vibrant, too unrealistic. 

(As were my hopes.) 

I pulled out the dusty velvet box which had belonged to my grandmother. Before its rusty hinge opened, she was shaking her head, slowly rising. I stood on legs as unsteady as a newborn calf’s, watching her disappear past the hazy sun.

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