Jessica

The warm air and smell of fresh-cut grass hits your nose as you open the car door. You breathe deep, enjoying the feel of summer and the brief break from the everyday that you are allowing yourself. Even if it is for a somber reason, the reminder of what life is all about is a welcome one.

You pop the latch on the trunk and walk around to the back. You pull out a bucket crammed full of brushes, hand trowels, clippers, and various other cleaning utensils. Laying next to the bucket is a bundle of flowers, you gently lay them atop the bucket and close the trunk lid. An old couple on their way out meets you at the gates and you step aside to let them pass, holding the creaky gate for them with your free hand. You offer a weak smile and a small nod, which the man returns. He is holding the woman close. Her gaze is a world away and she doesn’t even see you. Your smile fades and your heart goes out to her. It never feels right; to give friendly smiles at a graveyard.

You watch the couple as they make their slow, shuffling way across the lot to their car. He holds her tight the entire way and helps her into it when they get there. You smile at the reminder that chivalry isn't completely dead, even in this day and age. You wonder about the life they’ve shared, and who they might have been visiting here. Was it an old friend, their parents, or - heaven forbid - a child? You shrug that thought off, not willing to think about it and turn back to your own task.

The graveyard is nearly empty today, as it is every time you visit. The drone of a lawn mower can be heard from somewhere behind the next hill and bits of pollen float by on the summer breeze. Doves softly coo in the belfry of the chapel. It is a pleasant place, an old place, and not at all a bad place to spend eternity, you muse.

A whimper from somewhere nearby catches your ear and you turn to look for it. More as a reflex than anything else. There is no one nearby, and you realize the lawn mower has stopped. That must have been what you heard, you reason. The high-pitched whirring of a leaf blower starts up and a few doves fly from a nearby tree, irritated at the disturbance. You take a few more steps and hear the whimper again. You turn around and see a young woman standing at one of the headstones you just passed by. She wasn’t there a moment ago, but you see fresh flowers at the base of the headstone. She must have just set them there.

There are tears in her eyes, and she is rocking back and forth, almost like she can’t decide if she should stay or go. She is young, in her mid-twenties at the most, and dressed in a style you haven’t seen in twenty years. She has a large, colorful hair scrunchy wrapped around one wrist. It’s funny, you think, the way clothing styles come and go. She is holding her hands together in front of her, just below her chin, and is muttering to herself. Something about her strikes you, and you find that you can’t look away, even though you usually do when you see that someone is upset. This is a place for mourning, and it’s an unspoken rule that you allow people to mourn in peace.

She notices you staring and jumps a little. Embarrassed, you turn to leave, muttering a lame-sounding apology.

“Wait,” the girl says. “Don’t go.”

You turn back, surprised. That sounds like something people only say in the movies, not in real life. “I-I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just seemed upset, is all.”

“I was,” she says, and twists the scrunchie on her wrist around and around. “But it’s nothing. It’s silly, really.”

“How so?” you ask, intrigued. The handle of the bucket is growing uncomfortable in your hand, and you set it down. She seems reluctant to answer. “I won’t laugh, I swear.”

“Well, I lost my parents a while back. Ok, more than a while, it was like, twenty years ago.” She stops and begins to rock back and forth again. It seems like she wants to run, but doesn’t know which way to go. You suddenly realize that you don’t want her to go.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hearing how hollow the words sound even as you say them. “How did it happen?” You cringe. No one ever wants to answer that question, yet people always ask it.

If the question bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She just continues to twist the scrunchie. “I don’t know. I was there when it happened, at least I think I was. It’s called… repressed memories, or selective amnesia, or something like that. All I know is that I can’t remember anything about that day. One day we were all together, and then we weren’t”

It’s probably because you were too young to remember, you find yourself thinking, but you would never say that out loud. She couldn't have been more than a child when it happened. “That’s not silly,” you say instead. “It sounds perfectly normal to me.”

“But I still see them sometimes,” she says, almost in a whisper. “I saw them just a minute ago.” You look about without thinking. No one else is around. There’s been no one but the two of you since you walked through the gates.

“Do you mean that old couple who just left? I held the gate for them, but they couldn’t be your parents. Your grandparents, maybe.” You know you sound a little condescending and feel bad for it.

She shakes her head. “No. They were here, next to me. I could feel them. That’s why I shivered.”

Suddenly you find yourself at a loss for words. Is this girl right in the head? What do you even say to something like that? You cast about in your mind for a response and your eyes fall on the fresh flowers at her parent’s headstone. They are tulips. “Hey, those are some pretty flowers.”

She looks down and her face brightens a little. “They were my mom’s favorite. She would always have some growing under our window.”

“I think she’d love them,” you say, feeling a little awkward making a statement like that about a woman you’ve never met. But it seems to be the right thing to say, and the young lady nods in agreement. You both stand there looking at the flowers in silence and your gaze eventually wanders to the headstone itself. It is dirty with what looks like years of accumulated dust and moss covering it to the point where you can’t read the words engraved on it. You glance at the bucket beside you. “Hey,” you say. “That headstone is in pretty bad shape. You know what always helps me feel a little better?”

She looks up and shakes her head with a slight sniffle.

You nudge the bucket with your foot. “My family has a plot here. There’s a couple of generations in it and I come by a few times a year to clean it up. I feel like I’m here because of them and the care that they gave to me and my parents, so the least I can do is care for them now. Maybe if we cleaned up your parent’s site it could help you feel like you’re giving a little back to them now?”

She smiles. “Yeah, I think they’d like that. But why don’t we do yours first? I think I need a little break from here. Clear my mind, you know?”

You nod. The company might be nice. “Sure, it’s this way.” You pick up the bucket and turn to lead the way. “By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Jessica,” she says softly from behind you. You turn and see that she has stopped after only a few steps. She seems unsure all of a sudden. Did she change her mind? “Are you coming?” you ask. “I promise I won't bite.” You say it as a joke, and smile to reassure her.

She smiles back, the tension leaving her body as she does. “Sure, let’s go.” A flock of doves bursts out of the chapel’s belfry making you jump. You turn and watch as they fly off into a distant tree. “Thanks for listening to me, by the way,” she whispers.

“No problem,” you answer and turn back to look at her again. She is gone. Strange girl, you think.

You look down at the dirty old headstone. The poor girl may have been too nervous to stick around, but you still want to keep your end of the bargain. You set the bucket down and pull out a brush. As you start to scrub away the years of accumulated dirt and grime the words on it begin to reveal themselves and you find yourself feeling more and more uneasy. You begin to scrub harder and scrape faster, not believing what your eyes are telling you. Eventually, the entire inscription is visible and you take a few steps back, shaking your head. It reads:

Jessica Landon

Feb 2, 1975 - June 23, 1998

Beloved daughter.

Forever loved.

Forever missed.

Never forgotten.