I visit my husband’s cemetery every 15th of the month—just me, the stillness, and our memories—a year after he died. I visit my husband’s cemetery every 15th of the month—just me, the stillness, and our memories—a year after he died. But someone always arrived before, leaving flowers.
Who might it be? I stood paralyzed, crying, when I learned. They think sorrow evolves but never goes.
I stood alone in our kitchen after 35 years of marriage, shocked by Tom’s morning footsteps’ quiet. In my sleep a year after the accident, I sought for him. Wake up without him didn’t get easier—I simply grew used to the pain.
“Mom? You ready?” Sarah stood with keys jingling at the doorway. My kid has her father’s beautiful brown eyes with light-catching gold specks.
“Grabbing my sweater, honey,” I murmured, smiling slightly. Our anniversary and my monthly cemetery visit were on the 15th. Sarah has started coming with me recently, apprehensive about my traveling alone.
“I can wait in the car if you want some time,” she said as we entered the cemetery. I’d like that, honey. I’ll be quick.”
Twelve steps from the great oak, then a right at the stone angel, led to Tom’s tomb.
When I came near, I stopped. An arrangement of white flowers adorned his headstone. “That’s odd,” I said, caressing the delicate petals.
“What?” From behind, Sarah called. “Someone left flowers again.”
“Maybe Dad’s old worker friend?”
Shaking my head. They’re constantly fresh.”
Does it annoy you?
I felt strangely comforted by the blooms. “No. I simply… Who continues remembering him this way?”
“Maybe we’ll figure it out next time,” Sarah squeezed my shoulder.
I sensed Tom staring, flashing that crooked smile I missed, as we returned to the vehicle. I answered, “Whoever it is, they must have loved him too.”
Spring became summer, and each visit brought flowers to Tom’s grave. June daisies.
July sunflowers. Fresh and ready by Friday before Sunday visits. I left early on a scorching August morning.
I may catch the mysterious individual leaving the flowers. I went alone since Sarah couldn’t. The only sound in the cemetery was a rake scraping dry leaves.
The groundskeeper cleaned around a memorial. I recognized the elderly guy with weathered hands who usually nodded as we passed. I yelled, “Excuse me,” stepping over.
“May I ask?”
Stopping, he wiped his forehead. “Morning, madam.”
“Every week, someone leaves flowers at my husband’s grave. Know who?”
He continued without stopping.
Yes, yes. The Friday man. Comes regularly since last summer.”
“A guy?” Heart skipped.
A guy arrives Fridays? “Yep. Quiet person.
Mid-thirties? Dark hair. He carefully arranges the flowers.
Stays long. Sometimes talks.”
My thoughts raced. Tom has many teachers and previous pupils as buddies.
But this committed person? Would you…? Feeling shy, I paused.
If you see him again, could you snap a picture? I need to know.”
He nodded after looking at me. I understand, ma’am.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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