I was passing the park, stopped short and said to myself: something is different. It was brief and surreal and the emotions I felt are hard to describe. The flowerbed where I buried Fanny last September was gone. Gone! A small tree had been planted where the rings of sunflowers had been. I sat down on the bench and tried not to contemplate the details of what had taken place. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted one of those little airplane bottles of vodka. Fanny had been gone for five months but now she was twice as gone. This spindly tree, I thought, will outlive me. I picked up my packages and walked home, entirely on auto-pilot. I finished the work my work-day required and settled down here, down in front of this screen, a pint nearby and another one coming, typing words for a tale as old as the world.