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. I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “It matters.”
“Some connections,” he remarked, looking at Tom’s headstone, “don’t fade after someone’s gone. Special in its own way.”
Four weeks later, my phone rang while folding laundry. It was Thomas, groundskeeper. I gave him my phone in case he discovered anything.
“Ma’am? Thomas from the graveyard. Got the photo you wanted.”
My hands trembled as I thanked him and promised to visit that afternoon.
I entered the cemetery in September’s chilly air. Thomas held his phone awkwardly beside the caretaker’s shed.
“He came early today,” he remarked. “I took a photo behind the maples. I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
After receiving his phone, I froze at the screen.
The guy kneeling at Tom’s grave, painstakingly planting yellow flowers, seemed familiar. Note his wide shoulders and slight head tilt. I’d seen it several times at supper.
Are you okay, ma’am? Thomas’ voice was aloof.
“Yes,” I gasped, returning his phone. “Thank you. I know him.”
My head was spinning as I went to my vehicle. I texted Sarah, “Dinner tonight?”
She replied quickly: “Yep!” Matt makes his renowned lasagna. 6 p.m. You okay?”
“Perfect. See you.”
Sarah’s home smelled like garlic and tomato sauce when I arrived. Ben, my seven-year-old grandson, raced at me and hugged me almost knocking me down.
“Grandma! Got cookies?”
“Not today, buddy. Next time, I swear.”
My son-in-law Matt walked down the hall, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Ellen! Right on time. Dinner is almost ready.” He leaned forward for our normal cheek kiss.
Dinner went as usual—Ben requesting more garlic bread, Sarah taunting Matt. I laughed, but my mind was elsewhere.
Sarah brought Ben upstairs for his bath as Matt and I silently cleaned the table.
“More wine?” he said, raising the bottle.
“Sure.” Taking the glass, I inhaled. “Matt, I need to ask.”
Looking up, he raised eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“I recognize you. Tom’s tomb had flowers from you.”
The glass he held halted halfway to the dishwasher. He laid it down carefully, his shoulders dropping like a burden.
Have you known long?
Today only. However, the blossoms have been there for months. Every Friday.”
After closing his eyes, Matt sat down on a chair. I didn’t want you to know. It was not for display.”
“Why, Matt? You and Tom… You were hardly there.”
He glanced up, tears in his eyes. Ellen, you’re mistaken. We came close at the end.”
Sarah came downstairs but stopped at the tension. “What’s up?”
Matt looked at me, then his wife. “Your mom knows about the cemetery.”
“Cemetery? You talking about what?
“The roses we saw at Dad’s grave that day… Someone left flowers weekly for a year. I learned it’s Matt today.”
Sarah looked at her husband, bewildered. “You visit Dad’s grave? Every week? Why didn’t you tell me?
Matt shook his hands against the table. Due of my desire to conceal the truth. The night he died…
My pulse raced as the room became silent.
“What truth?” Sarah murmured.
Matt inhaled shakily. “I was why your dad was on that road that night.”
My stomach sank. “You mean what?”
“On the night you and Sarah visited your sister in Ohio… My situation was horrible. Failure plagued my building company. I was laid off without telling anybody. Far too embarrassed. “I started drinking heavily.”
Sarah sat astonished. “You worked nonstop. You went to work daily.”
I pretended. I left in the morning, job-hunted in the library, and went to bars till home.” Matt wiped his eyes forcefully. Your dad found it out. He contacted me while you were shopping, expressing concern and offering assistance.
Tom’s newfound interest in Matt’s work and my occasional sneak peeks made sense.
“Tom was the only one I could open up to,” Matt said. I was not judged. He conducted mock interviews and assisted with job applications. He was my father during those months more than mine.”
“The night of the accident,” I answered slowly, “what happened?”
Crumpled Matt’s face. I phoned him. When I got inebriated at a pub out of town, I couldn’t drive. Sarah shouldn’t know how horrible things were. Tom promised to pick me up.
A gradual, crushing flood of reality struck me. Tom left our peaceful home to aid our son-in-law. His return was never made.
“There was a truck,” Matt murmured. It ran a red light. Strike Tom’s side. His actions were motivated by his desire to assist me.
Small, painful sound from Sarah. Throughout, you made us believe it was simply terrible luck. Random incident.”
“I couldn’t face telling you,” Matt cried. “I called 911 immediately but panicked and left. Police just said Tom was alone in the automobile. This guilt haunts me daily.”
I sat astonished, memories moving. Unexpected late-night trip, alcohol in other driver’s system but none in Tom’s… and why my cautious spouse went out at midnight on Tuesday.
“I go to his grave every week,” Matt remarked. Ellen, I bring the flowers dad always got you. I learned your seasonal preferences from him. I spoke with him. My new work, Ben’s upbringing. I apologize repeatedly.” He glanced up, red-eyed. “He saved my life, but gave up his.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sarah hugged herself and asked. “You saw my grief and knew…”
“I was scared,” Matt remarked. I’m afraid you’ll detest me. To depart. That Ellen would never forgive me.”
I grabbed his hand across the table. Hand of guy who saw my husband’s death. Hand of guy my husband sought to rescue.
Matt, Tom chose that night. We chose out of love for you, Sarah, and our family. He wouldn’t want you to do this alone.”
How can you say That? Sarah wept. “Dad left because—”
I firmly said, “Because a drunk driver ran a red light.” “Not because Matt needed aid. Tom would have done it for anybody he loved.”
Matt gazed at me, hopeful and uncertain. You don’t blame me?
“I miss my husband every day,” I remarked, crying. However, knowing he was the guy I loved—kind, helpful, putting family first—gives me comfort, not hatred.
The days followed were hard. She felt wrath and remorse for experiencing it. Matt and they started treatment or counseling.
Matt sometimes joined me on my monthly graveyard visits. Ben lovingly placed red flowers on Tom’s grave yesterday as he and I watched.
Ben proudly added, “Grandpa liked these best,” too young to remember Tom.
Matt grinned faintly. It’s true, buddy. How did you know?
“You told me yesterday we picked them.”
Sarah joined us, taking my arm. “All of us here feel Dad would have loved this.”
I nodded, throat tight. Grief persists. Always will be… although the edges are softer now.
Matt stayed with me on the vehicle walk.
“I think about him every day,” he whispered. From shame to gratitude. He taught me fatherhood, marriage, and friendship.”
His arm was pinched. “He’d approve of your transformation.”
Hope so.”
After receiving flowers from a stranger, our family healed. Tom saved Matt’s life and ours in his final act of love by leading us back to one other through honesty and forgiveness.
Life is not random, argue some. I believe Tom is still looking over us and educating us, despite the grief of loss.
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