I always brought red roses on Sundays. Every Sunday, I would deliver seven red flowers wrapped in paper because she adored them. But what about Tuesday? Gone. Not withering, but gone. No petals, no stems, and no indication of life.
At first, I thought that the grounds workers might have thrown them away too soon. Or maybe animals.
But the same thing happened every week. Some graves still had vases full of wilted flowers and tulips that were dying. It was the only one that was empty.
I bought a little camera. Hunters use this kind of camera to take pictures of deer. I put it low in the hedges behind her headstone so that it pointed straight at the marble. No one knew. Just sat there.
The first two days were quiet. Then, on the third afternoon, I almost spilled my coffee while viewing the movie.
A boy. Maybe 11. Slim. The hoodie is too big for him. He crept up at 3:30 p.m., glanced around, and gently selected each rose. One at a time. He didn’t rip them. He held on to them like they were vital.
The next day, he returned. He came back not to take more, but just to sit. Cross-legged and looking at the rock. He was there for twenty-three minutes. I figured it out. He didn’t talk at all. He just sat there with the roses on his knees.
I made the frame bigger. I believed I knew his face, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen it.
Until I noticed what was hanging from his neck.
A silver locket. The locket was an oval form. Scratched. But I did know that. I bought it for Malini on our 20th anniversary. There was a minor engraving on the back. My initials are written in Tamil, as are hers.
My stomach turned.
It wasn’t hers. She buried it with her. She wore it every day for thirty-two years, even when the clasp broke and I had to fix it with fishing line. I watched them put her in the grave while she was wearing it.
How did the boy obtain it?
I paused the video and stared.
After that, I grabbed my keys and drove right to the cemetery.
I sat on the bench across from her grave for hours, like if I were waiting for a ghost.
And there he was at 3:34 p.m.
Same hoodie. The same weird way of walking. Legs that are too thin for shorts that are too little for fall. He was holding something that looked like a notebook and was close to his chest.
I didn’t utter a word. I let him go to her grave. He knelt next to it and gently stroked the edge of the stone as if it were skin. He then opened the journal.
He started to read aloud. With care.
It took me a minute to figure out what they were saying. But when I did, my heart slammed my ribs.
He was reading a poem that I had written.
It had been years since I wrote a poem, since Malini was sick. She did, though. She had a bunch of them in her nightstand. Things I put down when I thought I might be able to make a living as a writer.
I took a big breath and stood up. My knees creaked. The bench has become more difficult with time.
I said softly, “Hey.”
He jumped like a deer. He seemed like he would run away.
“I don’t care,” I answered quickly. “I just saw you reading.”
He held the notebook more tightly. “Sorry.” I didn’t know anybody else came here.
“Do you know her?” I nodded in the direction of the tomb.
He thought about it. “Sort of.”
That hurt. “Sort of?”
“She told me things. I mean, I do talk to her. I don’t know if she hears me, but she does.
“She?”
He nodded. “She is the lady in the red dress,” he said. When I first got here, she was here. She said, “This is a safe place,” while sitting on that bench. I could talk about that here.
My knees gave way. I had to sit down.
“Is it a red dress?” I asked. “Are you saying a woman really talked to you here?”
“Yes. But only that one time. She had a big braid and wore ruby bangles. The bangles and braid looked like those in Bollywood movies.
That dress was Malini’s favorite. She wore it to our niece’s wedding, which was the last time we danced. I remembered how she had laughed and spun around in it, making the skirt look like a movie star.
But this kid didn’t know that.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
He said, “Reza.”
“What do you mean by Reza?”
He thought about it again. “Reza Imtiaz.”
And then everything clicked.
Imtiaz.
That was the last name of Malini’s old employer at the school district. A nice lady who used to come by when Malini was getting chemotherapy and always brought samosas and nice music. She would come around every now and again with her little grandson. He was a quiet youngster with wide eyes who didn’t say much.
I said, “Your grandma.” “Mina?”
He nodded slowly.
I let out a long breath. The parts started to make sense.
I asked, “Have you been taking the roses?”
He looked like he was humiliated. “Just because she said it was okay.” The lady in the red dress.
I stared at him.
“She said they were from someone who cared for her very much,” he said. “They were for someone who needed love,” she replied, “so I could borrow them.”
That’s when my throat began to hurt.
Get. Not taken. Get a loan.
“How do you use them?” I inquired.
“I take them to the hospital,” he said. “To my mom.” She hasn’t been feeling well. They don’t let me bring in a lot of things, but I can bring in flowers as long as they’re covered.
I had to look away.
This kid wasn’t taking anything. He was trying to make someone feel better.
We didn’t say anything for a while.
“Where is your mom now?” I finally questioned.
“Getting better all the time.” They say she’ll be OK. But it was scary for a while.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “It was good to talk here. It seemed like she was listening even though she wasn’t there.
The wind got stronger. A leaf that had dried blew upon the headstone.
I pulled out my phone and glanced at the photos.
I showed him a picture of Malini at the beach with her hair blowing in the wind and a big smile on her face.
He grinned. “That’s her.” That’s her.
My hands were cold.
He was telling the truth. He couldn’t be.
“How did you get the locket?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“Okay,” he said. “One day, it was under the bench.” I thought it was gone, but… I don’t know. It looked like it was for me.
I didn’t tell him that the locket was buried. Some things might not need to be discussed.
I said something else to him.
“She would have liked you.” She used to say that kids with tranquil hearts grow up to be adults who can move mountains.
He smiled, but not very much. “She said something like that to me too.”
We made a deal right then and there.
I would bring two bunches of roses every Sunday. One for Malini. I would also give one bunch to Reza’s mom. They were tied together with string and wrapped in the same brown paper.
We would gather at 3:30 every Sunday. Please take a seat. Read. Keep this in mind.
We made it ours.
By December, his mom was back home from the hospital. She once went to the cemetery and walked carefully, breathing deeply. She thanked me for the flowers even though I didn’t say much. Simply smiled and nodded.
One day, Reza gave me a piece of paper that was folded.
A poem. His own.
It wasn’t fancy. But it was true.
The last line stuck with me: “She told me love doesn’t end; it just finds new places to land.”
After he went, I cried in my car.
Even though Reza didn’t come by as often, I kept bringing the roses. He moved to a new area of town. His mother became better. But he did write to me every now and then. Every year on Malini’s birthday, he put one rose on her grave.
I never saw him do it. But I was certain it was him.
And the locket?
I let him keep it.
Some things shouldn’t be buried.
Some things need to be kept going.
Life doesn’t always give you what you want. But every now and then, in the most unlikely locations, it gives you back something you thought you had lost.
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