art by Melissa Mead
by Natalie Graham
I didn't know why it was only men who returned as zombies. Neither did anyone else. Scientists who studied the phenomenon (and weren't squeezed to death by zombies) were puzzled. Maybe DNA? said one.
Duh, said the widows collectively. And it was widows who said it, because only husbands came back, never boyfriends, or friends with benefits, or one-night stands.
It was usually hair that they sprang from. As little as one strand left behind in the former home and not destroyed within twenty-four hours of the burial would sprout a full-grown zombie. The only way to deal with them once that had happened was fire. Obviously, it was easier to get out the dust buster before than the flamethrower after.
So, as much as I should have stayed and watched him lowered into the ground and out of my life, I turned away from the grave that drizzly May morning and ran to my car. I was actually okay with postponing the closure. As long as my heart was aching I wasn't forgetting him.