Every Sunday, he would go to the market, buy a bouquet of flowers, and spend a long time choosing a chicken or a rooster from the market vendors. Sometimes he would pick a turkey or a duck.
Later, with the flowers and the bird, he drove to the park, reaching a secluded and abandoned area that had nothing but a few neat rows of mounds. He took a shovel out of the trunk, dug a small hole, placed the bird inside, and made another mound on top. Then he laid flowers on the next grave and stood silently over it. A tear rolled down his cheek, the wind tousled the remnants of his hair, and the autumn sun shone on his back.
After standing for a few minutes, he sighed, picked up the shovel sticking out of the ground, and returned to the car.