Samantha had never asked her father about the photograph that she had always seen poking out of the top of his breast pocket. It was old and faded, torn and worn, yellowed in some spots, stained in others. But the oddest thing was, it was just a picture of a ring. A regular silver band, nothing special about it.
But whenever she had broached the subject of the picture, her father had led her away from the subject before she could even notice.
Now, sitting at his grave, with picture in hand, tears came down her cheeks, unbridled and confused.
What was the purpose of this simple little picture? Why had he carried it with him for so long? Among everything else, it was the one thing he truly wouldn't leave the house without... he had always had it on him...
He had forgotten keys and wallets, pants, even, at one time. But through it all, he had always had that picture.
Her mother had died when she was very young, he was all that she had left... and now there was nothing but this picture....
So, even though she didn't understand, she slipped the picture into her breast pocket, feeling a little closer to her father than she had in years.