Remember the birdfeeder we built ? You wouldn’t go to bed til it was perfect. We hung it outside and the birds came. You were so happy.
I still have it, but the birds don’t come. I miss you, bud. Every day. All day.
He touches his fingers to his lips, then to the cold headstone, then he walks away.

A mini-scene about a goodbye. #WriteCBC

A knock stops her blood from rushing, her legs slightly buckle.
Through the peephole: a wilted-mouth woman holding a clipboard.
A policeman, hand on his gun.
“Open now! Mrs. Bishop.”
“I didn’t take my husband’s name,” she says, opening the door to their invasion. “I’m still Neima El-Baz.”