On the page

She opened the book for the first time in 34 years and, because of the physics of the thing, rather than chance, there between the pages was a leaf from the tree where she had first kissed her husband. She looked up at the terracotta urn on the bookshelf, empty of his ashes, which were now floating in the channel (and probably still stuck to the cliff face because of that bloody breeze). She didn't know what type of tree it was and it wasn't a very pretty lea, plain and oval. As she picked it up, a small, black spot detached and landed on the page. An ant, dead. She cried. He had a horrible temper but god how she missed him. The wind pulled another leaf from a tree and rippled the water around the southern coast.