Marigold

As the sun sinks slowly in a pink, scantly clouded sky, I stand beside my car looking out at the sea of graves. Several trees are scattered throughout the graveyard like stern sentinels. I can see various tombstones from here, but no the one I’ve come to see. I squeeze through the cemetery gates on my way to visit an old friend.

While I make my way down the gravel path, birds flutter among the evergreens, chirping solemnly. In the big oak tree that hovers over the path, dead leaves that have clung to the branches throughout the harsh winter chatter softly in the cold breeze. Rotting twigs and acorns crackle underfoot as I pass under the tree.

Walking through the cemetery, I see several different graves. Large, smooth, marble monuments are elegantly etched with names, dates, and decorations. Some headstones simply say ‘MOTHER’ or ‘FATHER’. Other tiny gravestones mark the untimely deaths of babies and small children. Mossy, cement tombstones of those who perished long ago are rough and worn from years of wind and rain exposure. Every so often, I some upon a broken, grass-coated gravestone, perhaps toppled by its owners restless spirit. Quivering in the wind, newly placed wreaths and potted plants seem to keep a few of the lonely graves company while old, worn pieces of silk flowers lie scattered among the graves. I look down as I pass a bulging rectangle of fresh mud and the bitter scent of death bites my nose.

It grows darker, colder, silent but for my own footsteps. Walking slowly down the hill at the back of the cemetery, I approach a flat, lonely cement block, far away and separate from the other graves. Although nothing is carved upon the stone, I know well who lies beneath. Flooded by memories and tears, I drop to my knees and sob silently. When I finish weeping, I open my eyes to see a tear slide off my glasses onto the gravestone. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the small envelope I brought with me. Carefully, I sprinkle the marigold seeds in the crease between the stone and the grass. Another tear falls, this time in the crease. “I miss you,” I sigh as I stand up to leave.

Climbing the hill, I see tombstones silhouetting against the red sky like a crowd of figures looking down at me. As I look up to see a lone, honking goose fly north, once again I catch the scent of death and shudder. Under the big oak tree, I hear the leaves again, whispering prayers for the dearly departed that surround them and those they left behind.