The bride and groom leave the church. The bride looks lovely, as all brides do, but this one is especially beautiful. Ignoring the ‘no confetti’ signs, the guests throw handfuls into the frosty air, where it dances like snowflakes.
The groom catches hold of his bride’s hand and lifts it to his lips.
‘Happy?’ he mouths. She nods, but her eyes glance away from him.
She whispers in his ear, before walking away to where I wait: silently, patiently. She takes a single white rose from her bouquet and lays it gently on my grave.
‘This is for you, Mum.’
Another 100 word flash fiction post today. This one is for Friday Fictioneers, using the prompt above.