Gray ... solemn, yet the breeze carried freedom. The day mirrored the woman he'd been married to, and now she was gone. Melded into the fabric of the earth, never to be seen again. Forty-five years of the same face. Same voice, same dour attitude. He could not believe she was gone. Finally ... after years of disdain, the man was alone. He could not get the gray out of his mind. She had been gray. Inside and out. Now, her gray skin would merge with the soil, and the dirt would turn gray too. He was glad she was gone. Yet, he missed her. How would he survive without the steady hand of the woman he'd been with for over forty years? How would he get by?

With hands in pockets, he stared down at the place where Mildred lay, and a lone tear slid down the wizened cheek of the man who'd been invisible. The husband that was never there for her.

The sky was leaden. Pregnant with rain, it threatened and blustered. But stayed the same shade of gray, as if waiting. There were no words appropriate. No thoughts that mattered, and he muttered one last good-bye, and turned and walked away.