Walt took Ruth to the cemetery on a mild afternoon in late October, because honesty, they had agreed, included places as well as stories. Eleanor's stone was simple, her name and dates, a line of scripture Margaret had chosen when Walt could not choose anything at all. He cleared dry leaves from the base with his bare hands. Ruth stood a little apart at first, then came closer when he glanced back.
"I don't know the etiquette," she said quietly.
"Neither do I. I think etiquette is for people who aren't improvising." He introduced them anyway, voice low, feeling foolish and necessary at once. "Eleanor. This is Ruth. She plays. She argues with books. She taught me the left foot." He swallowed. "I'm still carrying your strings. I think you'd like that part."
Ruth did not speak to the stone. She rested her hand on Walt's shoulder and let the wind do the talking for a while. On the way back to the truck she said, "Thank you for bringing me. I know that wasn't small."
"Neither are you," Walt said.