Allowed

Olšany after dark, the first of November. Red plastic lanterns on every other stone, the candles in them bought in sixes at the supermarket by the tram.

A woman has done her mother's grave: wiped the name, pulled the ivy back, set the light square to the letters.

Next door, a stone with nobody at it tonight, last week's candle gone out in its own cup of rain.

She looks at it a while. Then she tips the water out and lights it off her mother's, which is allowed, she thinks. I think that's allowed.