I knew what it was when I saw it lying there beneath the rose bush. Beneath Lucky’s rose, the one we planted in his memory because it seems roses live longer than our dearest four-legged friends.
I picked it up. The wood all splintered and faded from the sun, and me with a tear and breath stilled as something so simple took me back a hundred summers, or so it seemed. I remember the day he painted it. How he worked so hard to get the lettering just right and the colors to matc...
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