Gramps sullied his hands in soil. Sometimes his arthritis would strike and he would have to massage his claws back into fingers. Then he returned them to earth. The flowers he tended were for his daughter. Once in bloom, he would harvest them and set out for the cemetery.
Next day, they were wilted. He cried, suspecting poison from neighbors, blaming his tired, useless bones. Still, one flower lived, a sunset-red daisy.
He carried that one, set it on his daughter’s grave. Dirt ruptured ceremoniously. A white hand grabbed the flower, sunk back down. Gramps smiled. “Be good, my darling.”
Author’s note: My mind birthed this story when I thought about how nice it would be if loved ones could see the beautiful conditions of their graves, see how much they are loved and missed. The end result wound up a bit of a horror.