Quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar.
Calm, hr. Eigil, calm, he told himself.
A rose branch twisted around the marble plate. It had been
finely etched into the gray material and the concave leaves
sported some soft moss.
With a smile he asked himself whether or not it would have
bothered Napoleon Nolsøe that Nils Tvibur’s great
grandson was sitting here painting these letters with silver-
Eigil and Karin had planned to drink a birthday toast at the
gravesite, and his bag contained a bottle of Chablis and two
glasses. He uncorked the bottle, lit a cigarette, and
considered the newly painted letters:
HERE LIES BURIED
RETIRED COUNTRY SURGEON
MARCH 3rd 1878