She saw me in the cemetery, coming from a distance. Even though her attention was tightly fixed on his grave, she still saw me. I approached slowly and deliberately from the front so as not to startle her.
As I walked closer, I realized she was likely a new widow in her late 60s or early 70s. A bit plump, drooping shoulders, and a freshly bobbed hairdo from her weekly trip to the beauty shop. The dress was plain. The purse was huge. The spirit crushed.
“Hello,” I said, “Is this a loved one you’re visiting today?” She didn’t move. Except for a clump of hair recently unbobbed by the breeze, she looked like a statue. I stopped a few feet away and clasped my hands. A sign of respect.
You wouldn’t think such a common question would merit much more than a nod. Or at best, a subdued yes. Not today.
This was her day. Oh, how she’d needed this day.
Her head raised slightly. “My husband died three months ago today.” The quiver in her voice confessed she was still reeling from the shock. “We were together almost 50 years. We never spent a day apart. Never. Not one day.”
She walked around to the head of the grave. Tripping on a small stick, her age-spotted hand reached for something steady. The top of the headstone worked. Its steeled granite felt cool to the touch.
“For fifty years we were always together,” she said. “Half a century.” She looked off into the distance and bit her lip. Recalling one of a thousand memories known only to her. Her face changed from nostalgia to anger. A deep breath primed her next words.
“Do you see those sandspurs?” Switching her purse to the other hand, she gestured toward the ground. A bony finger pointed to one of the only sprigs of greenery growing on her husband’s grave. “Doesn’t anyone take care of this place? There’s nothing but dirt. Where’s the grass they were going to plant? There was supposed to be fresh sod and there’s nothing here but dirt!”
She synchronized the word dirt with her foot kicking a clump of it into the air. It was a hot, dry day. Perfect weather for dirt kicking. The scene reminded me of a major league baseball manager arguing with the home plate umpire. Red Yankee Stadium clay billowing around his feet.
She threw her arms up in annoyance. “Even his headstone is stained! What kind of cemetery is this? I wish I’d never buried him here. I wish.…”
The motion caused the huge purse to slip off her shoulder. She bent her elbow, catching it just in time. Walking around to the back side of the headstone she lowered her head. Her eyes searched for something, anything, nothing. She circled back to her original spot at the foot of the grave. There were indentations in the ground where she’d been standing.
I replied softly as her words trailed off. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I’ve just begun working here at the cemetery. I’m not sure what I could do, but I….”
As my own words trailed, I made a simple gesture. It was kind of a low shrug that would indicate my innocence for the accused crimes. I lifted my hands ever so slightly from where they’d been hanging and pleaded my case with outturned palms.
That was all she needed. She took my simple gesture as an open invitation. This precious, fragile human being simply melted into my arms. She melted.
With her head buried in my shoulder and her much older arms wrapped around my much younger waist, she let it out.
The cry.
This was the one she’d been holding in since her husband’s death. She cried the cry. The initial groan was somehow low and high pitched at the same time. She squeezed those older arms so tightly it nearly knocked the breath out of me. Her whole body was shaking now. It was that involuntary tremble from somewhere deep…
Read the rest of the story in Some Perfect Tomorrow.