Marc peruses the memorial stones in the bright moonlight, taking in their tales of love and loss. His thoughts run rampant. Is there any other place where so much pain is concentrated in a single spot? Look at all these names, most dead before their time. Just the perfect place for this conversation. When he reaches the stone that reads Some Other Spring, his question sounds as if someone else were asking. “Cole. On this stone, here… Some Other Spring. What does it mean?”
Cole, seeming baffled and more than slightly annoyed, waits some time before answering. “It’s a Billie Holiday song about an abused woman who wonders if she’ll ever love again.”
Marc stares at the inscription. How many springs, how many months, how many weeks make up a lifetime? Not nearly enough. Is there any point in waiting to be better, more certain, or less vulnerable?
“I don’t know why,” Marc says aloud, his thoughts transitioning to words, “but of all the stones out here, that one speaks to me the most.”
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