Serendipity and the Cemetery
Rebecca Carroll
© 6/20/10
Today is a bittersweet day. If Dad had lived, he would have celebrated his 59th Father’s Day. And in one of those times when the calendar reveals the way it can sometimes align special dates with events, it is my late mother’s birthday. She would have celebrated 76 years. For us, she is a forever youthful 66-year old mother, wife, grandmother, and comforter.
A small custom began a few years ago that my daughter Kerry, who lives in Kentucky and can’t come home much, calls me to remind me to place flowers on “Grandma June’s” grave on June 20. You see, Kerry was also born on this day, 50 years after Mom. It is this small outing of mine that brings me the serendipity.
I stop at K-mart to buy flowers, accomplishing another task of picking up a prescription and a few other necessities. I look at the flowers, trying not to notice the cheapness, thinking that it is the sentiment that is important. Purple and lavender look good, and I could match up a spray for Dad with one for Mom. I know that in Dad’s particular way of being unparticular about this color, he wouldn’t mind, and Mom would love it—if they knew. But their knowing is not important; it is the honor I feel knowing that they were absolutely imperfect but perfect parents.
The cemetery is hot and solemn at the back of its peaceful field. There are a couple of other cars there, but I glance and don’t recognize them. I take my purplish flowers out of the trunk and look over to the headstone and see that someone—a sibling, probably—has placed a nice spray of flowers atop the stone. It is a mix of purple, and I feel a sudden chill despite the 90+ reading on my car thermometer. I place the flowers, somewhat peaceful that Mom and Dad are adorned with purple, and start for my car.
A nice surprise awaits me as one of the other visitors recognizes me and comes over to talk. I had not seen her for 10 or 12 years, so we had a nice visit. I get in my car and drive slowly around the loop in the cemetery, and as I read some of the names on the headstones, I see a grouping of headstones that gives me the other serendipitous moment. A man lies buried at one stone, and a woman lies buried at the stone next to it. They are not related, and I don’t even know if they were friends; I’m sure they knew of one another. Now, the man’s wife is married to the other woman’s husband. That their burial sites are side by side is purely coincidental, and it is sweet to think they can all be buried together in a nice, blissful line.
A sweltering day of remembrance ends with sweet moments, the kind you can’t plan no matter how many lists and how many phone calls you make. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Happy Birthday, Mom. You are clothed in purple and love.
