Gerald didn’t have a lot of money but he had a lot of love for Angelica and so he wanted to show each and every day how much he loved her. It started with little notes that he placed on her windshield as he left for work at the hardware store across town. They were simple little notes saying things like, “You mean the world to me,” and “You make me so happy,” and, a direct life from that Jerry Maguire movie, “You complete me.” Angelica thought it charming to see those little notes on her car. She kept them in a shoebox.

The shoebox was getting full though and the “cuteness” was wearing thin. Gerald had to think of something else to impress Angelica. She really didn’t NEED to be impressed anymore. She loved him. They spent most all their time together. He had one of her dresser drawers for his clothes and his razor sat on a shelf in her shower. She’d set the timer on the coffee pot in the kitchen so he could have a fresh brewed cup before he had to scuttle off to work. She slept in, working as a house cleaner as everyone else was at work. Her hands perpetually smelled like disinfectant.

He drove by Garden of Hope Cemetery when the idea came to him. He pulled in, parked near the crypt of Honus Borgoine, the town’s founder. He got out of his car and looked around. It was still early and the grounds were deserted and so he stole the bouquet of lilies that sat on the tombstone of Gretchen Manley, beloved mother, the inscription read, who died in 1998. He drove back to Angelica’s place and placed the flowers at her door.

Every day he’d leave a little earlier for work to steal bouquets off of headstones for Angelica. Some geraniums from the grave of Melissa Greene, sister, who died in 1987. A collection of pink roses from the grave of Ted “Maxi” Maxwell, sweet father and faithful husband of 57 years, who died in 2001. Some daisies and sprigs of babies breath from the tomb of Niko Tankara, World War II nurse, who died in 1993. Every day a new set of flowers. Every day flowers left at Angelica’s door.

”You can’t afford all this,” Angelica said once over the phone.

”You deserve it all, my love.”

The next day he was looking at a spray of daffodils and tulips laying on the headstone of Helena Munch, grandmother and friend, who died in 1968. He picked them up, looked over his shoulder, and saw the ghosts of Honus, Gretchen, Ted, Niko, and Helena ready to kick his mortal ass.

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