Caleb used to watch how other people did it, wondering if there was a right way and a wrong. He soon learned that there are as many ways as there are people. There’s a lady who comes every week to change the flowers on her mother’s grave. She spends a while fussing with them, trying out different arrangements before standing back, nodding in satisfaction, then walking away. There’s an old gent that Caleb spots on occasion, he brings a foldable stool, and sits with his wife for a time, and with his head bowed he talks quietly, and if anyone walks past he nods and says hello. He’s said hello to Caleb a few times. There’s the young guy who turned up and tipped half a bottle of whiskey onto a grave and drank the rest himself, ranting at God before staggering away. There are the families who come and don’t know what to do, except for the really young who run and play. Those who fuss over the state of the grave. Those who stand and do nothing. Those who are ashamed of their tears. Those who look around to see who’s watching.
He’s seen all of these people doing it their own way, and still he wonders if there’s a right way, a way that will be heard.