He put the daisies on the small bedside table, where she always kept them. Every other day he brought a fresh batch. The smelled like her.
One night between spring and summer, the winds came, taking a number of fences with them. They’d bordered their homestead together. He’d fix it alone. Millions of miles from home.
“Our home among the stars,” she would say.
“Just on the ass-end of Mars,” he would answer.
The wind pulled open the back door and him into the dark.
When it ceased, he saw and he stood, crying, in the sudden field of daisies.