Memorable Day

    I walk through the graveyard, stopping many times to put a sprig of flowers on a grave – relatives, friends of my parents, friends of mine, neighbors. I have put sprays on the tombstones of my parents, grandparents, great-grandmother, and aunts and uncles.
    I stop in my walk down memory lane, memories that aren’t mine, but of things told to me through the years. My father and grandfather in the coal mines. My grandmother piecing quilts and crocheting bedspreads. My mother and a friend soaking bread in fermented blackberry juice and feeding it to a neighbor lady’s chickens – yes, the chickens got drunk.
    I look up from my great-great-grandfather’s grave and notice a man a few rows away, kneeling at a black tombstone. He doesn’t appear to be praying so I assume he’s arranging flowers to his satisfaction.
    I walk further down the row of relatives’ graves, making sure I’ve not missed anyone. I have not been the only distant relation to place flowers this weekend; some of the graves have three or four springs – red, white and blue for veterans, and roses or daisies for their women.
    I stop at the end of this row, and look around the graveyard. The man I noticed earlier has moved a couple of rows closer. He looks familiar to me, but I have always thought that after a certain age, a lot of people resemble other people, so don’t try to figure out who he is.
    On my way back to my vehicle, I go past my parents’ grave, and check the placement of the spray on their tombstone, and of the sprays on my grandparents’ and great-grandmother’s tombstones. Satisfied that I have the sprays centered and tight enough to prevent a wind easily blowing them away, I am ready to walk to my vehicle, when I sense there is someone behind me.
    When I turn around, the man is about six feet from me. I smile at him, and he says, “Sharon? Sharon Cravens?”
    “Yes,” I reply, not sure if I should say anything further.
    “I thought it was you. I’ve not seen you for years.” He pauses. “You don’t recognize me?”
    “No, I don’t,” I tell him. “You seem familiar but I don’t recognize you.”
    “Bill. Bill Ferguson. From grade school.”
    “Bill. No, we’ve not seen each other for years. What was it, third grade when you all moved?”
    “Fourth. But I never forgot you.” He smiles and it lights up his rugged face.
    “Really? That’s surprising, since it’s been so long.”
    “You were hard to forget. Always smiling. Always seemed so happy.” He smiles again and extends his hand. “Let me reintroduce myself. I am Bill Ferguson, and would like to make your acquaintance.”
    I take his hand, and the warm, firm handshake arouses something in me that I thought was in permanent hibernation. “I am Sharon Cravens Leatherwood. Pleased to meet you, again.”
    He loosens his grip but keeps hold of my hand. “Leatherwood? Steven? How is he?”
    “Unfortunately, no longer with me the past four years. He would have liked this reunion.”
    “I am so sorry for your loss. I know it’s a hard thing to go through. I lost my wife two years ago.” He looks down at the ground for a moment, then back up at me. “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me this afternoon?”
    Just this morning, someone asked me when I was getting married again and I had told them never, that Steven could not be replaced. True, Steven cannot be replaced, but perhaps I could explore the possibility of a new love in my life.
    “Yes, Bill. That sounds very nice.”