Christmas, 2000
The wind whipped at my face as I knelt down and carefully wiped the clumps of frozen leaves from the base of the tombstone. “Ellen Katherine Layton,” it read. “August 15, 1917–December 26, 1985. Beloved Mother.” I cleared the area in front of the stone as well and made the short trek back to the base of the hill. I opened the trunk of my car to retrieve some of my mother’s favorite Christmas decorations: poinsettias, holly, and an evergreen wreath. Slipping the wreath up my arm and over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of someone else in the cemetery. It occurred to me that it was an odd day to visit a cemetery. As a matter of fact, in all my years of visiting my mother’s grave, I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone else here on Christmas Day. I shrugged, hoping the poor soul was warmer than I was, and closed the trunk.
Trudging back to the grave, the wind shrieked in my bare ears. I put my head down to avoid the icy lashing, shrinking my neck into the warmth of the coat collar. As I passed, I could see that the other man was holding a brown paper sack. I briefly caught the nice-looking young man’s eyes. He was slender and tall, wearing a thick, navy down parka and a wool hat with a university logo on it.
“Morning,” I said, waving my arm full of decorations toward the man.
“Good morning,” the young man waved. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you,” I cheerily replied.
“You’re the first person I’ve seen here on Christmas Day in years!” the young man yelled above the winds.
“I was just thinking the same thing!” I shouted.
The wind died down a bit, and the sun beamed, lighting the ice-covered boughs and tombstones until the whole cemetery shone.
“Did you go to the university?” I asked, gesturing toward his hat.
“Yes, still do,” he responded with a smile.
“Class of seventy!” I replied, patting my chest. “We were still using inkwells back then, of course. What are you studying?”
“Oncology,” he said somewhat shyly. “If I can stick it out, that is.”
“Terrific. Pretty tough program, though. These roads are something, aren’t they? I couldn’t get up the hill here at all,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, sir. I was just down Route Ten from the hospital. They’ve sanded, but it’s not doing much. Maybe this sun will help.”
“They’ve got you on call already?” I chuckled. The wind began to pick up again. I wrapped my coat tighter.
“Oh no, not yet,” he laughed. The young man had warm, blue eyes; his cheeks were red from the cold. “I just do a little volunteer work there when I’m home from school.”
“That’s great. The hospital’s no place to be on Christmas. I’m sure the patients appreciate you, though. Well, nice speaking to you. You have a Merry Christmas,” I said, quickening my pace back to my mother’s grave.
“Thank you, you too, Merry Christmas,” he said.
I draped the holly over the top of the tombstone. I positioned the evergreen wreath to the left of the lettering and placed a poinsettia directly in front of it, with a matching poinsettia positioned to the right. Scratching at the stone, I dug out the frost that was wedged into the lettering. “There,” I said, whisking any remnants away as I leaned back to admire my work. “She’d like that,” I assured myself.
I know that most people decorated grave sites on Memorial Day, but my mother loved Christmas, not Memorial Day, so regardless of whether it was thirty-five degrees or thirty-five below zero, I made my way to the cemetery each year and decorated her stone, always placing an extra poinsettia on my father’s stone beside her.
“It’s awfully cold this Christmas, Mom,” I said, banging my hands together. “I know someone who must have been extremely grateful for not having to decorate your house this year,” I laughed, picturing the retired Dalton teetering on one of Mother’s rickety ladders while she barked out the precise placement of each decoration.
“Hannah brought Evan home, and I’m not too proud to say he takes after his granddad in many ways: goodlooking, suave…has a certain charm with the ladies. Oh, and did I mention modest? You’ll meet him one day and see the similarities for yourself.” I paused, looking again at the year of death.
“I still miss you, Mom,” I shivered. “I miss you every day.”
I stood to go and noticed that the other man had already left. Probably couldn’t take the cold, I thought. Bracing myself against the wind, I started back down the hill when something caught my eye at the grave where the man had been standing. Approaching the car, I strained to see what had been placed on the tombstone. As I moved closer, my heart began to pound. I quickened my pace and saw that at the base of the stone lay a brandnew pair of glittery, beaded shoes. I quickly read the name on the marker and the date of death: “Margaret Elizabeth Andrews. March 17, 1951–December 25, 1985. Beloved Wife-Mother-Daughter.”
I spun around in the direction of where the young man’s car had been parked, but the cemetery was empty. His car was gone. So I placed one of Mother’s poinsettias alongside the shoes on the tombstone, and drove home.
Smiling.