Philip Eastland turned the collar of his leather jacket up against the driving sleet that had begun to fall and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. As usual he had forgotten his gloves. Today was the first day of spring, but it had come early this year, just in time for a late season storm.
His chest started to burn when he saw that ice was forming on the top of Amy’s marker. He couldn’t stop the ice from forming any more than he could stop the cancer that carried her away two years ago. With a sound deep in his throat, he knocked the ice off anyway.