It had been ten years since they'd buried David Sansman. His widow, my mother, was still called Mrs. Sansman by the majority of the town. During those ten years, she visited her late husband's grave often, sometimes with flowers and sometimes with nothing at all. Her hair had become a mix of grays and whites interlaced so that you could no longer decide exactly what color to call it, and the patterns of wrinkles on her hands and face had grown more intricate, too. The lines were entwined with the delicacy of wispy spider webs. Her body had shrunk and humped over; an imaginary weight seemed to drag her shoulders forward while her neck pointed straight up still. Nevertheless, if my father were alive, he would have found her beautiful; his devotion faded with his body and not a moment before.

Every Sunday, I went to visit Mom. She lived about thirty minutes from my house, in a quiet little neighborhood. Her house was old and white. Vines, years overdue for a trim, clung to the walls and the paint, dulled by the sun, hung chipped around the windows and the door. My father and mother had lived in this house since they were married. Until Dad died, they were always there and always together. Every meal, every holiday, every night - they spent with each other, watching television or sitting on the porch.

Every week, when I arrived, she was always in the same place waiting for me, sitting on the front porch swing with her feet dangling two inches off the ground while the bench slowly swayed back and forth. I have never been sure about when she would go outside to begin her vigil or how many days she sat like that. One week, because of my son's football game, I came thirty minutes early, but she was already waiting.

"Christopher, darling, where are the children?" my mother would ask every week, even though they never came with me. Usually, I spent most of the drive over there planning what the excuse would be. The simple truth was that they were too busy. To be technical, Wendy and Jack weren't children anymore. Wendy would leave for college the following fall, and Jack would begin his sophomore year in high school. Jack was at football practice so much that I hardly saw him, and Wendy was always out with her friends. Life was still fresh for them, still beginning, but here, at my mother's, life had stopped ten years ago.

That Sunday I arrived right on time. Mom was already in her position, staring into space. I knew she was thinking of Dad; I could see it in her eyes as I climbed the stairs.

"Christopher, darling, where are the children?" my mother asked, as soon as my foot left the third step.

"I'm sorry Mom, they couldn't make it because of schoolwork, they send their 'hellos' though," I replied.

"I'm glad they didn't come. I need some adult company today, sit down," she said.

I sat down in the white rocking chair that was facing the road and turned it a little more towards her. "Okay, Mom, so what is it?"

"Christopher, I'm going to die," she said as though she were just moving away or taking a vacation. Her hand fluttered up and then quickly went back to grasping the front of the swing. I saw a slight sparkle flitter in her blue eyes.

I tried to remain calm and rational. "Mother, why do you think you're dying? And what does that mean? Of course you're going to die - so will I."

"I don't think it. I know it," she replied. I waited patiently for her to continue. "David came to me in my dream last night," she said. "It will happen today."

"Wow, Mom, today, huh?" I tried to assess the situation. The previous week my mother's mental health had appeared to be fine. Had it deteriorated that much since then? We really didn't have the money to hire a live-in nurse. If she were mentally unstable, we would have to send her to a nursing home. I knew a few nice ones she would probably learn to enjoy. She interrupted my thoughts.

"Yes, today. My dream replayed our life together and it was wonderful. It was like David was still alive, sleeping right next to me." My mother was staring at the wall in front of her in a daze. "I'm going to the graveyard," she announced. "Let me grab my coat." She went inside the house, which gave me some time to call Rachel, my wife, for some advice. I took out my cell phone.

"Rachel," I said when she answered her phone, "where are you? I think something's wrong with Mom."

"I can't help you now, I'm at the mall with Wendy. We're picking out a prom dress - it's an all day affair. What's wrong with Mrs. Sansman?" My wife had never called my mother "Mom" or by her first name. Like the rest of the town, she knew her only as David's wife. My mother had never protested. Rachel would not have stood for people referring to her as simply my wife; she was an independent type of woman. Rachel worked at the hospital as a receptionist. She was in a lot of social clubs and knew almost everyone in town. She'd get home from work around six and be off to a meeting again by seven. Usually, when she returned for the night, there'd be so much to do with the kids that I never even got a chance to ask how the meetings went.

"She thinks she's going to die today. She's acting really odd," I reported.

"Well, I doubt she'll die today. Just stay with her and humor her. On the bright side, at least this could only last twenty-four hours," Rachel rationalized. "Oh sweetie!" I heard her talking to Wendy. "That looks beautiful! But it's a little big in the rear." There was a pause and I heard Wendy's muffled voice in the background. Then Rachel said, "You don't like it either? Well, good, because I really hate it."

I tried to cut in. "Aren't you worried about what this says about Mother's mental stability?" I said loudly.

"Mrs. Sansman will be fine and if not, we'll figure it out later. Just stay with her for today."

"Alright, well, we're heading off to the cemetery, that should take up some time. I guess I won't be home for dinner tonight."

"It's alright, Wendy and I are going to grab something here and Jack's eating at Daniel's house. Oh, no Wendy! That color is simply awful, and the cut doesn't become you at all." Wendy must have returned from the dressing room again.

"Well, I guess I'll see you when I get home," I sighed.

"Don't be too loud if you're late. I'm exhausted," Rachel replied and abruptly hung up.

My mother came out of the door in a heavy black coat. I swear it was the same coat that she had worn to my father's funeral ten years earlier, but I decided that this wasn't the time to say anything. She had also put on one of her nicest dresses and a little cap. She carried a small picture flat in the palm of her hand, I guessed it was a photo of my father, but I could only see the corner of it peeking out between her thumb and pointer finger. "I'm ready," she said.

The drive over to the graveyard was quiet, and every once in awhile I'd look over at my mother. She was fidgeting, but she had this growing expression on her face, a mixture of excitement and tranquility. The drive took about ten minutes. I pulled into the winding path and drove up beside the gravesite. My mother got out of the car. "I think I'll stay here, Mom."

"Yes," she said and began to slowly walk the ten feet towards her husband's grave.

I began to look around. The graveyard was well kept; it had beautiful trees that loomed overhead and the silhouettes of their leaves skimmed over the still grass. It was a massive cemetery with the graves lined up over a little hill and beyond. My dad's plot was on the lower end of the graveyard. As it grew later, the shadow of the hill fell over it. The gravestone was plain, with my father's name to the left. It read:

DAVID H. SANSMAN
1915-1979
Beloved Husband

My mother's name was to the right. It read:
MARTHA G. SANSMAN
1917-
Beloved Wife

Between the two graves, the gravestone read:
UNTIL DEATH DO US PART

I had always wondered at the logic of this choice but arguing with my parents had been futile for most of my life. I was probably the most trying thing to ever happen between them. They were so in love and happy without me that I have never been entirely sure that my birth wasn't an accident. Perhaps they had thought that two people as wonderfully loving as they were had some sort of obligation to have a child. So I was born to be a third wheel for most of my life. I was the only thing that they had to love besides each other, and they both became jealous of me. They never discussed it until I was eight and wanted a B.B. gun. My father thought I should have one, but Mom disagreed. It was the only fight I ever saw them have. No one really won the fight either. I didn't get my gun, but it wasn't because Dad gave in. The whole conversation was just dropped. Mom never took it as a victory, and Dad never considered it a loss.

Ever since that argument, it was always them against me. My house was never like my friends' houses where they'd ask their mom something and she'd say, "ask your father." I'd always get the same answer from both of them; they never even had to talk about it. When I was seventeen, I wanted to go to California with a few friends to live and work during the summer before college. I asked my father first who considered it for a few minutes and told me he wasn't going to allow his only son to waste his life. Then I went to the kitchen to ask my mother who said the same thing. It was as if they shared one mind and whether or not I agreed with their decision; I had to live with it.

I looked back towards my mother. She was sitting on my father's grave, her legs forming a "v" at her side as she hunched over the site. She had propped the picture up against the gravestone and I knew she was talking to her husband. I shook my head. I wondered what she was telling him. I envisioned a long conversation where she talked about my family and her grandchildren. She probably mentioned what she had saw on television that day or she told him how many cars had driven down the street. I started making up the conversation in my mind and finally my curiosity got the best of me and I rolled my window down a bit. I listened to fragments about the weather and the house until my own name came up. "Sometimes I worry about Christopher," she said to my father's gravestone. "He never even mentions his wife to me. They don't have what we do."

"Did, what you did. He's dead, Mom," I muttered under my breath and I rolled the window back up. For some reason, I was angered by her comments and I felt my brows furrow. What did she know about marriage? She thought it meant two people but only one life. Maybe it worked like that in her day, but it didn't happen these days, did it? And who would want that?

I watched her talk to him for over an hour thinking about Rachel and my marriage and the whole time I grew more and more concerned about my mother's health. She would lean incredibly far forward slowly and then rock back quickly, repeating this over and over again. Her hands opened and closed at her sides. Then she was weeping; she did not cover her face, but the tears filled the crevices in her skin as she stared straight ahead. I had never seen so much emotion erupt from a person and I didn't know anyone had this much emotion in them. I worried and wondered if I should get out and stop her; convince her to get back in the car. Then, before I could move, she lay down under her own name and stared up at the sky.

I decided that this had gone on long enough. I got out of the car and lifted my mother off the ground. She didn't protest at all, just followed me and got in on the passenger's side of the car when I opened the door. I didn't know why but the ten-minute ride back from the cemetery was somehow even quieter than the ride there. Neither of us brought up what had happened. She looked dazed, her movements were unsure and she didn't speak. When we arrived at her house, I opened her car door to help her out. Then I stood beside the car and watched as her crooked figure ascended the stairs. She sat back down on her swing.

I rode home thinking about my mom and what to do. I couldn't figure it out. My mother had taken my father's death so well. When the doctors told him that he had lung cancer, she was convinced that they could beat it. Everyone else knew that he was going to die, but she always thought their love alone could save him. Even he knew he was going to die, but he fought it for her. She stayed beside him the whole time. I think my mother got less than thirty-five hours of sleep a week for a full year. Close to the end, she lived on a short nap every day. When she understood finally that Dad was going to pass, she just kept smiling and taking care of him. He died while she watched.

The Saturday of my father's burial, my mother stayed at the gravesite until the sun began to set. When she finally began to notice the dark, she lifted herself off the grass and began to walk towards my car. I had been standing a few feet away watching her and I'll never forget her face as she turned towards me; it was so empty. I followed her at a short distance behind. She was about halfway to the car when she collapsed. I lunged forward and grabbed her under her arms as she fell, lowering her gently to the ground. It was only a matter of minutes until she came back to consciousness looking strangely disappointed. I helped her up and remained quiet as I walked her over to my car and drove her home. "I'll come to see you tomorrow, Mom," I said when we got to her house. "If you need anything…"

"No," she mumbled. "Tomorrow." She walked up the steps and sat on the swing. I waited to leave that night until it was apparent that she wasn't going inside.

She hadn't gone crazy then though; maybe she had grown a little more placid over the past ten years, but that was all, and wasn't old age a cause of that, too? I cleared my head as I pulled into my driveway, parked the car and walked inside the house. I had my own marriage on my mind now.

"Rachel!" I yelled when I walked in the front door. "Rachel?" She wasn't home; maybe Jack had a game or maybe she was still with Wendy. I went to the kitchen, made a sandwich, and sat down in the living room to watch television. I must have fallen asleep because I never heard Rachel come in. She came over to me and shook me awake.

"Hey Honey," I said smiling. "How was dress shopping?"

"Fine," said Rachel, rummaging through her huge, deep purse. "Shit, what did I do with those receipts?" she murmured to herself.

"Today, when Mom and I went to the graveyard, Mom did the strangest thing," I began. Rachel didn't look up from her purse.

"Rachel, will you come sit down for a minute?"

She sighed and walked over to sit down on the couch beside me. She folded her legs and put her hands in her lap, looking at me. It was the same look she'd given me when we were courting. It was a look that, after observing my mother, I couldn't believe a woman could have, the one that showed she had an opinion on everything, that she was her own person. It was the same except now it held age, worries and, especially now, impatience. I looked at her for a minute and smiled, deciding I'd tell her the story later.

"I love you, Rachel. We don't say that enough anymore, you know?"

Her eyebrows rose slightly and her look softened long enough for her to look confused. Then, the moment passed. "Yep," she said quickly and patted my hand with her own. Then she went on in the same breath, "Okay, well, there's some stuff I need you to do, like take out the trash and the recycling." She stood up as Wendy walked by and up the stairs, carrying a large plastic bag in which I assumed was her new prom dress. In half an hour, she'd be back out the door without an explanation of where she was headed. Jack wouldn't be in until after ten and then he'd be at the computer the rest of the night doing his homework. Rachel walked away after she'd given me a list of chores. She went upstairs I guess, probably to bed or to argue with Wendy about what she was wearing out that night.

I took the trash out and then the recycling. It had grown dark and colder. No one else was out on the street; I was completely alone under the yellow streetlights. I started to imagine that I was the only one out in the whole state, the only one whose breath formed little clouds in the cold air. Maybe I was the only person alive in the world. I shivered and went back inside the house but the central heater didn't make me feel any warmer.

I decided to call my mother. I thought just knowing she was okay would do me some good. I dialed her number and it rang over and over. I wasn't alarmed though. Sometimes Mom couldn't get to the phone fast enough; she'd be asleep or in the bathroom. We hadn't bothered to get her an answering machine because she wouldn't have known how to work it anyhow. So I decided to call back again. It rang many more times without an answer. I grabbed my coat and rushed out of the house, yelling to Rachel as I left.
"I've got to go check on Mother!" The slamming door blocked most of my words, but Rachel probably wouldn't notice that I had left.

My headlights illuminated the mailbox. "D. & M. Sansman," it read. The garbage wasn't out yet; my mother usually put it out before dark, but in her state, I didn't doubt that she had forgotten. I pulled up in front of the closed garage door and cut the engine. I bounded up to the porch taking all three steps at once. The house was dark, but I knew that sometimes Mom went to bed early. I had my key out and ready; it was in the lock when I felt the stare on the back of my neck. I turned and looked at the porch swing. Mom was sitting there blankly facing forward.

"Mother?" I said cautiously. "Mrs. Sansman?" She didn't respond, didn't move or blink. Later the doctors would tell me that she had passed around three-o-clock, which couldn't be exactly right since I hadn't left until at least a quarter after three. The doctors told me these guesses could be a little off sometimes, especially without a formal autopsy. The funeral arrangements were made. Rachel and Wendy shopped for two black dresses this time, and Jack missed a practice. I spent most of the next day or two getting things prepared for the burial, going past the gravesite to make sure everything was set up properly. Mom had left the picture there and it had fallen onto the ground, laying face up. It wasn't just a photograph of my father, it was them together, Dad on the left and Mom on the right. I had it enlarged for the funeral.

The day my mother was buried, I sat at the graveyard far past the time when the little hill cast its shadow over me. As I walked back to my car alone, my knees grew weak and I fell to the ground. When I awoke, staring up at the evening clouds, I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, although I didn't know why.

It has been ten years since they buried Mrs. Sansman, the beloved wife of David; and I miss them, feeling as empty as the plot under the gravestone that now bears my name.

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