I tell Dennis to take a wrong turn when I take him to Paul's Graveside. I'm not used to these roads having street signs. Turning back around, having round-abouted to the highway, he notes a terrapin hunkered down on the divider, a small one not quite covering the width of the yellow stripe. We find the cemetery. I've not been here for twenty years so we wander a bit to find the right grave. I am amazed at my genes in this dirt, lives buried back, uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and beyond. I keep forgetting I'm just one leaf and not the whole forest. I keep forgetting that I too will fall. I keep forgetting that I will sleep on, seeping into and becoming the soil. I've brought an allium to plant. Paul said, when he was twelve, "When I die, I want them to plant onions on my grave so that everyone who comes by has to cry." I hope he's satisfied with chives. I start digging with my fingers. Dennis asks if I'd like a shovel. I reply that this is pretty darned poetic, but a shovel would be more efficient. The grave diggers turned up the soil from deeper beyond the grass roots' reach. It is clay, it is flint, it is hard. Dennis finds a Coleman multi-tool; I use it to pry rocks loose until I get a hole big enough for the chives. Cemetery rules forbid planting flowers, so I camouflage the chives with the arrangements left over from the interment ceremony. I did not make it to the funeral, but at Paul's bedside person after person after person stopped me to say variations on "He helped me, I mean he really helped me out a lot." The silk roses are splattered with mud and reflect a hard and icy winter. Still, they'll probably last another two or three months before the garbage collectors get them. I wonder if the chives will survive the summer or the planting of the tombstone sometime in the future. Somebody told mother Paul's temporary grave marker had been stolen. I note it was under the fake roses and lilies all along. Back on the road, Dennis sees the terrapin still hunkered. He stops to save her.