The ground is no longer wet from last night’s monsoon, and you wouldn’t know it was ever here, all the soaked concrete pat down dry, except that the grass is bright and quenched and alive. The best way to determine their peace is the lack of smell. They want to stay out of memory, just a sweep of green in the background of a milestoned life. But all you remember is when they die, and you take in the air like you take in the good wine. All that water for your feast.