Every Sunday, without fail, I brought red roses. I would always send her seven red roses wrapped in paper every Sunday because she adored them. But what about Tuesday? Out of here. Not withering, but gone. There are no petals, no stems, and no evidence of life.
At first, I thought the grounds workers might have thrown them away too soon. Or maybe animals.
But the same thing happened every week. Some of the other graves still had vases full of dead flowers and tulips that were starting to rot. Her’s was the only one that was empty.
I got a little camera. It is the kind of camera that hunters use to take pictures of deer. I set it low in the hedges behind her headstone so that it was pointing straight at the marble. I didn’t tell anyone. Just sat there.
For the first two days, nothing happened. On the third afternoon, I almost dropped my coffee while I was viewing the movie.
A boy. Maybe eleven. Not thick. He can’t wear the hoodie since it’s too big. He crept up around 3:30 p.m., looked around, and picked each rose very carefully. One at a time. He didn’t rip them. He held on to them tightly, like they were vital.
He came back the next day. He came back not to take more, but just to sit. Sitting with your legs crossed and looking at the stone. He stayed for twenty-three minutes. I worked out the numbers. He didn’t say anything at all. He just sat there with the roses in his lap.
I made the frame bigger. I believed I knew his face, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen it before.
Until I noticed what was hanging from his neck.
A silver locket. The locket looked like an oval. Scratched. But I was aware of that. I gave it to Malini for our 20th anniversary. There was a minor engraving on the back. Tamil letters spell out her initials and mine.
My stomach turned.
It couldn’t be hers. It was buried with her. She wore it every day for thirty-two years, even when the clasp broke and I had to use fishing line to fix it. I saw them bury her with it on.
So, how did the kid get it?
I stopped the video and took a look.
After that, I got in my car and drove straight to the graves.
I sat on the bench across from her grave for hours, like I was waiting for a ghost.
And there he was at 3:34 PM.
The same hoodie. The same weird walk. Legs that are too thin for shorts that are too short for fall. Today, he was holding something that looked like a notebook and was near to his chest.
I didn’t say anything. I just let him go to her grave. He crouched down next to it and gently stroked the edge of the stone like it was skin. Then he opened the journal.
He started to read out loud. Softly.
I had to think for a minute to get what they were saying. But when I did, my heart slammed my ribs.
He was reading a poem that I composed.
It had been years since I wrote a poem, not since Malini was sick. But she kept a bunch of them in her nightstand. Things I wrote down when I thought I could make a living as a writer.
I took a big breath and stood up. My knees made a sound. The bench has gotten harder over time.
I said, “Hey,” in a hushed voice.
He jumped like a deer. It seemed like he might run away.
“I don’t care,” I answered quickly. “I just… I saw you reading.”
He held the notebook more tightly. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know anyone else came here.
“Do you know her?” I nodded toward the grave.
He gave it some thinking. “Sort of.”
That hurt. “Sort of?”
“She said stuff to me. I do chat to her, though. I don’t know if she hears me, but she does help.
“She?”
He nodded. He responded, “She is the woman in the red dress.” She was here when I first got here. She sat down on that bench and remarked, “This is a safe place.” That I could talk about here.
My knees gave out. I had to sit down.
“Red dress?” I asked. “You mean a woman really talked to you here?”
“Yes.” But only that one time. She had a big braid and ruby bangles on. The bangles and braid looked like the ones you see in Bollywood movies.
Malini really liked that dress. We danced in it for the last time during our niece’s wedding. I remembered how she had laughed and spun in it, making the skirt look like a movie star’s.
But this kid couldn’t have known that.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
“Reza,” he said.
“Reza what?”
He thought about it again. “Reza Imtiaz.”
And suddenly it all came together.
Imtiaz.
That was the last name of Malini’s old employer at the school district. A nice lady who used to come over during Malini’s chemo days and always brought samosas and nice music. Every now and then, she would bring her little grandson around. He was a quiet youngster with wide eyes who never said anything.
I told him, “Your grandma.” “Mina?”
He nodded slowly.
I let out a sigh. The parts started to come together.
“Have you been taking the roses?” I inquired.
He looked like he was ashamed. “Only because she said it was okay.” The lady in the red dress.
I saw him.
He said, “She said they were from a person who cared about her very much.” “She said I could borrow them,” and that they were for someone who needed love.
That’s when my throat started to hurt.
Get. Not taken. Get a loan.
I inquired, “What do you do with them?”
He answered, “I take them to the hospital.” “To my mom.” She has been sick. They don’t allow me bring in too much, but I can bring in flowers as long as they are covered.
I had to look away.
This kid wasn’t taking anything. He was trying to give someone hope.
For a while, we were quiet.
I finally inquired, “Where is your mom now?”
“Still getting better.” They say she’ll be OK. But for a while, it was scary.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “It was nice to talk here. Even when she wasn’t present, I felt like she was listening.
The wind picked up. A leaf that had dried up blew upon the headstone.
I looked at my photos on my phone.
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 smiled. “That’s her.” That’s the lady.
My hands got chilly.
He told the truth. He couldn’t be.
“Where did you get the locket?” I asked, my voice faint.
“Oh,” he said. “One day, it was under the bench. I thought it was gone, but I’m not sure. It looked like it was for me.
I didn’t tell him that the locket was buried. There are some things that don’t need to be explained.
Instead, I told him something else.
“She would have liked you.” She used to say that youngsters who are tranquil grow up to be adults who can move mountains.
He grinned with a hint of shyness. “She told me something like that too.”
We made a deal right then and there.
Every Sunday, I would bring two bunches of roses. One for Malini. I would also give one bunch to Reza’s mom. The same brown paper was used to wrap them and tie them together.
And every Sunday at 3:30, we would gather. Take a seat. Read. Remember.
We made it our own.
By December, his mom was out of the hospital. She once went to the cemetery and walked carefully, taking deep breaths. She thanked me for the flowers even though I didn’t say much. Just smiled and nodded.
One day, Reza gave me a piece of paper that was folded.
A poem. His own.
It wasn’t anything special. But it was real.
The last lines stuck with me: “She told me love doesn’t end; it just finds new places to land.”
When he went, I cried in my car.
I kept bringing the roses, even though Reza didn’t come by as much. He relocated to a different area of town. His mother became better. But he did send me letters from time to time. Every year on Malini’s birthday, he put a rose on her grave.
I never saw him do it. But I knew it was him.
And what about the locket?
I let him keep it.
Some things should not be buried.
There are things that need to be done.
You don’t always obtain what you desire in life. But occasionally, in the most unlikely places, it gives you back a little of what you thought you had lost.
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