A curtain of golden curls reaches past his shoulders. He moves through the graveyard barefoot, careful of thistles and pinecones. The ragged hem of his wide-legged, washed-out jeans brushes the grass like a gown.
In June, he planted petunias and daisies in front of old mausoleums, the ones whose families send a check every month, get a wreath at Christmas, lilies for Easter. If he stays on, he’ll bag the fallen leaves in October, pull up the memorial flags so they’re not worn ragged by the winter winds.
In between, he walks the endless rows of gravestones, breathing in gasoline fumes and wielding the roaring power of a Stihl 27cc weed eater.