Gemma first saw Cole in Highland Cemetery at Christmas, squatted low, balanced on tiptoes in front of a gravestone three rows away. He brushed leaves, twigs, and pebbles from the ground in front of him.

"You've really got a nice spot here, honey," he said. "Two giant white pines and a blue spruce."

She tried not to listen as she sat cross-legged in front of her twin sister Gwen's headstone—plum with silver specks—in ankle boots and leggings tucked beneath a long full skirt. Cold seeped through her yoga mat. As she prayed, eyes resting on the chiseled letters of her sister's name, she watched the young man in a forest-green jacket. His voice rose and fell, soothing as rain on tender green leaves. He moved his hand over the ground, as if brushing hair off a woman's face.

When he left, Gemma could not resist looking at the gravestone he’d visited—black with gold glints, and a weeping willow with a white dove flying above it. The inscription read "My Beloved Wife, Althea.” Gemma subtracted the dates. The woman had died twenty-two months ago at the age of twenty-six. Gemma's sister had been twenty-one.

She ran her fingers over the chiseled letters. What a lovely name, Althea. A sprig of fresh holly with a Christmas card signed "Cole" leaned against the stone. She carefully lifted the holly to her nostrils, its scent reminiscent of almonds.

Gemma saw Cole again on Valentine’s Day. The crunch of leaves underfoot made her turn
to see him carrying a basket of red and white carnations. He nodded, smiled as he passed.

His light brown hair, combed back off his face, fell in thick waves beneath the lobes of his ears as he gathered leaves and twigs from Althea's site. He propped the basket against his wife's stone, and talked to her in hushed tones, again balanced in a squat position on the balls of his feet.

“Once upon a time there was a land where men wore nothing but hats, and women wore only ankle bracelets."

Gemma concentrated on his words, feeling as if he spoke straight to her heart.
"The men decorated their hats with feathers, veils, and jewels to their heart's content, but they allowed the women only an unadorned ankle bracelet one-sixteenth of an inch wide."
He laughed softly. "You know the women didn't stand for that long. They met secretly and planned a public spectacle that rocked the land from mountaintop to the bottom of the sea.
"Hmm. I’ll tell you about it next time, honey.” He bent to kiss the letters of her name.

--

Although Gemma didn’t see the man on the first day of spring, she pictured Cole steady on the balls of his feet, rocking slightly. She imagined the ebb and flow of words he whispered to his wife.

Gemma removed the blighted carnations from Althea's grave and crisscrossed one purple tulip and one daffodil from her sister's bouquet, placed them on the ground where she approximated Althea's heart to lie, then added a bunch of wild Spring Beauties she picked nearby. They dotted the grass like stars fallen to Earth.

"Bree," she whispered, tracing the letters of Cole’s last name.

Gemma opened the card embossed with lace hearts, fingered the whorls of Cole’s sig-
nature. She took rubbings of Gwen's and Althea's stones before she left.

At home she looked up Cole Bree in the phone book. He lived at 3610 Acoff Drive. She'd never heard of the street, but a map showed it dead-ended into Devou Park. Nice neighborhood, she remembered, old stone and stucco houses shaded by sprawling oaks. She toyed with the idea of calling him up. What would she say? "I like your wife's name,” “Don’t your thighs ache when you squat that way?" or "Do you like Brie cheese?"

--

"Are you okay?"

Gemma opened her eyes to Cole's face. She'd fallen asleep reading Shakespeare's sonnets, swooning from the opulent scent of nearby hyacinths in full bloom.

She inhaled sharply through her nose. The thick scent of wool enveloped her. He wore a copper-colored sweater flecked with apricot, sapphire, and violet. His eyes were green and luminous as emeralds.

"You have green teeth," she said.

"Jellybeans.” He patted his jacket pocket and squatted next to Gemma. "My wife loved jellybeans. Every Easter I'd buy her a new gourmet variety. I found key lime this year."
He removed a bag from his pocket, crinkled it open, and held it out. "Try some."

Gemma scooped out a few. Cole’s eyes lingered on her lips, before he scanned her sister’s gravestone.

"Gwen," he whispered. "A friend?"

"My twin sister. She died four months ago. Our birthdays fell on Easter this year."

“I'm sorry. It must be extra hard losing a twin.” He rolled a gold watch around his wrist, leaving the face on the underside. "My wife's been gone two and a half years."

“Gwen and I used to read poetry to each other every night before we fell asleep. It was our
nightly ritual since we were twelve.”

When Gemma pierced the chartreuse candy between her teeth, she winced. “Whoa, they’re really sour.”

"Do you eat chicks?" Cole asked.

Gemma almost spit out the jellybeans.

He looked astounded. “Those yellow sugar-coated marshmallow Peeps. Chicks. I have some in the truck.” He pointed to a red pickup. "I bought way more than I can eat. It was our Easter tradition to buy boxes and boxes of chicks, tear open the plastic wrap, so they can get good and hard by Easter. Will you help me get rid of them?"

"Sure."

He sprinted to the truck, as if afraid she'd change her mind. He returned with two boxes. She reached inside, pulled a chick for her and one for him apart from the mass. She placed one squarely in the palm of his hand.

Gemma unfolded her yoga mat to its full length. "Have a seat. I warmed it up for you."
Cole sat beside her. They ate chicks in silence, studying each other obliquely. He said quietly, "It gets easier with time, though sometimes it feels like it happened yesterday."
"I'm afraid I'll forget things," Gemma said. "Like the way Gwen couldn't tell a joke to save her soul. Or the way she hated the juice of her beans to mix with her mashed potatoes. She was the finickiest eater. Trimmed every trace of fat from her meat."

"Althea loved to mix things with mashed potatoes: peas, corn, lima beans, okra, meatloaf."

“My sister ate one item at a time. First her meat, then her veggies, then mashed potatoes. We were different in a lot of ways, but there are ways we were absolutely the same."
"How?" he asked. "I never knew any twins."

"We wear our hair exactly the same, except Gwen parts hers on the left. I part mine on the right. We are the exact mirror image of each other. Her left foot is slightly bigger than her right. I'm vice versa. Same with our breasts."

His cheeks flushed. He picked up a twig.

"It's not noticeable with the naked eye," Gemma continued. "We could tell by the way one doesn't fill the bra cup like the other one."

His eyes fell on his boots. With the twig, he knocked sodden leaves from the heel of his boot.

"I woke up in a panic today," Gemma said. "Unable to remember Gwen’s voice."

He smiled. "With me it was pictures. I kept thinking I'd forget what Althea looked like.” He offered Gemma another chick. "I had photo after photo enlarged and framed, set them all around the apartment. It calmed me to look at her face. Felt as if she was still with me."

"Describe her for me."

Cole closed his eyes. "Reddish-blond curly hair. She wore it just below ear length. Had a cowlick that drove her nuts. Claimed she woke up with it on her eighteenth birthday. Swore one of her aunts put a seven-year curse on her. It went away when she turned twenty-five. Hazel eyes that protruded more than most people's. They were always shiny with tears. Althea had a problem with her tear ducts."

"Did you have any children?" Gemma asked.

"No. You?"

"I've never been married."

Cole stared at the empty boxes of chicks, the empty bag of jellybeans, the palms of his
hands. "Can I ask what happened to your sister?"

"She came down with what seemed like a flu, and it just wouldn't go away.” Gemma closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun, before releasing the word "Leukemia."

The wind kicked up, stirring all the spices of blooms and warming soil.

"I don't know who I am now. Gwen's been with me since inside the womb. She was delivered first. I always followed her lead."

Gemma crumpled the paper bag, squeezed it tight in her fist. Cole bent the cardboard box
that had held the chicks, folded it in half, and half again, until he'd reduced it to a flat cigar.
Before he left the cemetery, Cole told Gemma he hoped she had many happier birthdays to come. She said she hoped to see him on Memorial Day.

--

When she arrived at the cemetery on the last Monday in May, the lilac bushes blooming near the entrance wafted through her car’s lowered window. She pulled over, pinched off one of its flowers. In front of Gwen's stone, she found two white roses with lavender edges crisscrossed over a sprig of baby's breath. Gemma added the lilac bloom she’d picked.
Cole crouched at his wife's grave, a bouquet of white roses and baby's breath trailing from his open hand. As his words to Althea cascaded around Gemma, she whispered to her sister.

"He left us two creamy white roses, Gwen,” she whispered. “Cole has the most beautiful eyes, green and soft as moss. His hair is the color of maple syrup. He talks to his wife in a voice so tender."

She sat on her yoga mat, the roses in the lap of her full skirt, eyes closed. If she concentrated hard enough, she might hear her sister's voice.

Dogwoods and redbuds, dense with spring leaves, rustled in the wind. From her skirt
pocket she extracted a baggie, unsealed its closure, and scattered snips of her pale blonde hair from a recent trim over the soil not yet settled above her sister.

Cole's voice rose and fell, weaving an intricate story. Gemma tilted her head to catch the sun full on her face. She heard snatches of sentences: "a gown that captures moonbeams," "turtle and jellybean croissants," "a ring carved like an iguana," "hair striped like bumblebees."

When his story ended, Gemma walked slowly toward him, dragging her feet to presage her approach.

His face and arms were tanned, his hair sun-streaked. He turned into the full sun to see her.

"Do you work outside?" Gemma asked.

"Yes, I'm a surveyor."

She pictured him in a field of dandelions, clovers, and violets, positioning his transit on a tripod. "Are you hungry? I packed a picnic lunch. Join me?"

He smiled widely.

She pointed to a hill that dipped down to a lake. "There's a perfect spot over there.”
He waited for her to lead the way. She blew a kiss to her sister and walked toward her Firebird, Cole at her side. He insisted on carrying both the blanket and picnic basket, shortening his stride to match hers.

His jeans looked new—crisp leg creases that you can never recreate once they’re washed. His boots shone rich cordovan. He no longer wore his wedding band.

They spread the blanket on the crest of the hill between tall white pines. Several inches of pine needles cushioned them, giving off a woodsy, minty aroma. Gemma divvied out cream cheese and cucumber on rye bread, a couscous salad of kale, carrots, and red peppers with raspberry vinaigrette dressing.

The oldest part of the cemetery surrounded them. Stones leaned every which way. Some
had toppled face down. Most of the deceased names were indecipherable. A lamb, fallen from a headstone, rested on its side. An angel pointed to the heavens with her only arm.

“Look how the blue sky’s mirrored in the lake’s surface,” she said.

He followed her gaze.

“See that bench? It’s a great place to watch turtles sun on that fallen log.”

They took turns telling stories about their loved ones, stealing glances at each other.

"Do you feel like your wife's here when you visit?"

"No, but her bones are. It's all I have left of her."

"Do you talk to her when you're home?" Gemma asked.

"Sometimes. More so when she first died. I mostly talk to her when I'm here. Tell her what happened since my last visit. How I found a garter snake curled up on the basement floor. How a branch snapped off our old sycamore in the last storm. How our cat Reba gave birth to four kittens. And I tell her stories."

Gemma wished she'd let Cole sit first, so she could have positioned herself across from him. But it was easier to talk sitting side by side, to say things you might not be able to say face-to-face. She wondered if Althea had been happy, and what it felt like to be Cole's wife. Althea with her tear duct problem, Cole with eyes green as algae.

"I hope you don't mind if I took rubbings of your wife's stone?"

He turned to her.

"Gwen and I used to collect rubbings from gravestones all over the country. Your wife has a beautiful stone. How did you pick the line from Emily Dickinson?"

“Hope is the thing with feathers.” Cole released his breath as if to blow out a candle.
"Althea wrote poetry. I found that quote in her journal."

Gemma sighed. “Last month, I found a hollowed-out tree stump that must have been massive filled with goose feathers near the lake. Must have been a nest because it also contained fluffy down.” She paused, gazed toward the lake. “That nest meant a lot to me, because that day when I entered the cemetery, I’d been thinking about killing myself. It’s so hard to be alive in the world when your twin isn’t. But that nest, with those feathers soft as breath, made me feel hopeful, almost happy. I sensed Gwen’s presence, that she wanted me to go on.”

She felt Cole’s eyes on her but couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I had a really rough time the first months after Althea died. I never told anyone, but I did contemplate suicide, which made me feel weak and full of shame.”

“I kept it a secret too,” Gemma said. “I wanted to talk to my parents about it, but I could see they were weighed down by their own grief. I felt like I should be grateful to be alive, and questioned why I wasn’t the one to die. The church I was raised in considers suicide an unforgiveable sin, but I don’t believe that. If you’re in such a depressed state that you want to kill yourself—"

A goose heading for the lake with her six goslings began honking to their right, and flapping her wings, hissing. She was enormous with them extended. Cole touched her arm, whispered, “Lay flat on your back. That goose means business.”

She laid her plate aside, followed his lead. He took her hand. Her heart raced. She heard their breaths. Once consecutive plops in the lake water stopped, followed by silence, the pair sat up to see that the goose and her goslings were swimming in a tight row toward the opposite side of the lake.

Cole turned toward Gemma. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“That mother goose scared the bejesus out of me.” She told him about how when she was
six, a goose chased her because she was too near its hidden nest. That honking brought it all back.” She took a few deep breaths to stop her trembling, began laughing uncontrollably.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked.

She snorted. “A defense mechanism. To calm myself.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Your face is all red.”

Once her laughing fit ended, Cole picked up his plate. “I don’t know about you, but this salad is too good not to finish.” He grinned, lifted a forkful to his mouth.

“I’m done,” she said. “Take your time.”

She stole looks at Cole's thighs, wishing he'd worn shorts. Maybe in July or August.
"Did you see that section of headstones in German?" he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Did you see the gazebo? We could have a picnic there sometime. Or go to Spring Grove Cemetery. It has several lakes with pairs of mute swans. I even saw a black swan there once. And it has all kinds of trees on the National Champion Tree Register.” She felt her face redden. She’d not meant to go on for so long.

"We'd have to eat something exotic there," he said.

"I could bring squid," she offered.

"And I'll bring Slim Jims."

"I've never eaten Slim Jims. Never met anyone who did."

“Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve partaken of Slim Jims. It requires a very delicate
palate.” Cole smacked his lips loudly. "They deserve to be their own food group."

"So, when will we have this picnic?" she asked.

"How about June twenty-first, the summer solstice?"

“It’s a date.” She wondered if she should give Cole her phone number, in case he had to
cancel. But why entertain that possibility? She turned to see his face. "Isn't this peaceful?"
Cole's lips spread in an unforgettable smile, as if he'd just been handed the secret of life.
"Gwen and I liked to visit cemeteries. All the local ones, from acres of gravesites down to the tiniest ones next to churches. We never found a cemetery we didn't like."

Cole laughed.

"It's true. I feel alive in a cemetery. Only a few months ago, Gwen and I talked about where we wanted to be buried. She picked here at St. Cecilia's. I chose St. Michael's. I've always wanted to be cremated, but after visiting so many cemeteries, it seems a shame not to one day rest in one. I suspect I'll wind up next to Gwen, unless I get married, and my husband insists on somewhere else."

"You'll marry. And love it.”

His last words trailed off. She waited, sensing he wanted to say more. The wind stopped. Distant church bells tolled.

"I did," he added.

Gemma wondered how he could deliver those two words without rancor, with such clarity and gratitude. She wanted to find someone responsible for her sister’s death and reduce them to a bloody pulp, then set them on fire, and finally grind their ashes under her heels until they dissolved. Tears pooled in her eyes. She took a slow deep breath, opened her eyes wider to try to dispel the tears.

Cole sat his empty plate on the blanket, stretched his legs, cleared his throat. She felt his eyes on her. "Althea died in her sleep from a brain aneurysm. I woke next to her, and smoothed my leg alongside hers, as I did every morning. Her skin felt clammy, but that didn’t register until I placed my hand over her heart."

Gemma’s tears fell, lulled by Cole's lowered voice, his words.

"I knelt over her, filled with terror, rage, disbelief. Until I looked at her, really looked at her, how peaceful she lay on her back, legs crossed at the ankles, hands palm up at her sides, cupped halfway, like this."

Cole held his hands open, palm up toward the sky, then slowly closed his fingers halfway,
as if nestling a newborn kitten, warming it, protecting it, but giving it room to grow and opportunity to flee.

He dropped his hands. One landed next to hers. She wrapped her baby finger around his, squeezed, and held her breath.

Two shrill notes made them both startle. He took her hand in his, pointed to a purple butterfly bush. A red-winged blackbird perched on its arching flower cluster, which bobbed under the bird’s weight. Again, the two piercing notes, its body puffing up with the call. In the distance, a second bird mirrored the call, and the first bird flew from the bush.

Cole helped Gemma pack up their picnic, find a garbage can. He picked some of the purple flowers from the butterfly bush, placed them on Gwen’s and Althea’s graves, slid one behind Gemma’s ear. His fingers lingered on her earlobe.

 Inhaling the sweet scent, feeling the warmth of his hand, she raised her eyes to his. “Cole, my name is Gemma.”

———————————————————
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Karen George is author of the poetry collections Swim Your Way Back (2014), A Map and One Year (2018), Where Wind Tastes Like Pears (2021), Caught in the Trembling Net (2024), and the collaborative Delight Is a Field (2025). She won Slippery Elm’s 2022 Poetry Contest, and her award-winning story collection, How We Fracture, was released by Minerva Rising Press in 2024. Her prose appears in Adirondack Review, Valparaiso Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Louisville Review, and NonBinary Review. She’s on Facebook as @karenlgeo, and her website is https://karenlgeorge.blogspot.com/.

ART BY:
Ignatius Sridhar
Santa
photograph