Belle didn’t always go. It depended on how she was feeling. On the days weariness won, she pressed an ancient pocketknife into his hand and pushed him into the back garden to cut four flowers to take with him, one for each of the graves she demanded be attended. He didn’t ask questions about who they were, and when Belle came with him, he always waited at the edge of the cemetery so she would have her privacy, but he knew from reading the markers they were all relatives. Her husband had died nearly three decades ago, while the other three came long before that. Parents, perhaps, or siblings. Those headstones lacked anything other than the name and years to further identify them.