Step 1: begins with this sentence: He returned to the cemetery
Step 2: add this word: charm
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: I don't remember
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He returned to the cemetery where his mother had taken him for walks when he was a child. Bundled up in a thick parka against the cold or pink-skinned and lathered with sunscreen, he had once wandered the paths that wound among the different sections as she walked behind him. Miniature flags adorned the graves of veterans, and though his young eyes were drawn to their bright red stripes and the way they fluttered in the wind, he had learned he could not take the flags for himself.
The cemetery had expanded in the years since Steven and his mother had lived nearby. What began as 50 graves, grew to 100, then 250. Looking across the expanse of gravesites, he could no longer tell how many graves there were behind the distant copse of elm trees, nor how many could be found beyond the small hillside on the right.
When her cancer struck and it was determined to be terminal, his mother insisted that he help her plan every last detail of her death, including her burial. At 62, she had a will and her finances were in order, but she had no cemetery plot awaiting her. Lacking church affiliation or family, there was no place she was expected to be, so she asked him to decide where he wanted to visit her. At 29, he felt wholly unprepared for the request and argued with her, knowing all the while his guilt would carry him forward.
He spent two weeks looking for an appropriate cemetery that could take her. After having visited three places, only to learn they had a five-year waiting list, he remembered the cemetery near their old house.
The first time he stepped through the gates, he was amazed at how much it looked the same, despite having grown exponentially in size. It still had the charm of a small-town cemetery, with personal effects that had been placed lovingly at gravestones and fresh flowers that were being maintained. Steven walked around the flowers near the entrance, then headed toward a small trailer on the left that bore the sign "Offices."
The room he entered was a small waiting area with two chairs and a water cooler. Behind that appeared to be another room with the door closed.
"Hello?" Steven said.
He heard rattling behind the door and, after a few minutes, a man came out. He wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, which he was busy buttoning and tucking in. His hair had an odd angle on the left, as if he had been asleep on it.
"Can I help you?" the man said.
"I'm Steven Jenkins."
"I don't remember you," he said, looking agitated. "Do I know you?"
"I called yesterday about my mother. She'd like to buy a plot."
"We're all full up," the man said and turned to go back to his room.
"Wait," Steven said. "On the phone, you said there might be something."
"No," he said. "There isn't."
He turned and went back into the other room, slamming the door behind him.
Steven slunk down in one of the chairs. He remembered the conversation they had had about the plot. He knew he hadn't imagined hearing that there was a space for his mother. He pictured her then, reclining on the large pillow in her hospital room, reading or organizing the many papers she had insisted he bring to her. He knew there was nothing he could do for her cancer and little he could do to make her more physically comfortable. But getting the plot would do wonders for easing her mind, and so that's what he had to do.
Steven stood up and walked toward the room where the man had gone. Steeling himself, he pounded on the door.
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