Grave Gifts

James Coleman strolled through the rows of headstones, reading the names etched on each one and admiring the bundles of flowers adorning the graves. Tributes to the deceased. But all the flowers were fake. Fake flowers for people that were once very real. Just one more thing that perplexed James. Since the first time he’d seen his aunt’s ghost at her funeral many years ago, James had been fascinated with the concept of cemeteries. Plots of land set aside for mass remembrance of those that had passed on to the life hereafter, whatever that may be. But James knew that even after someone passed over the veil, they could see what happened here in the land of the living; the dead could cross the veil, and only a handful of the billions of living people could see them. James was one of those few.

James kneeled on the grass in front of a single headstone. It was a small monument. No flowers, no garnishes to honor the person lying beneath his feet. It didn’t even have a name on it. It simply read “Our angel grew his wings.” And the date was April 15, 1990. It was a headstone for a baby. Maybe a stillborn baby. But why would the baby’s parents not put flowers on the grave?

James stood and continued his stroll through the cemetery, finding more graves as he went that had nothing to honor the person that was. It was as if no one cared about the people that weren’t people anymore. The grounded spirits that belonged to these graves wandered forlornly around the cemetery, never straying too far from their headstone. James understood when an old headstone did not have a gift. All the people that knew the dead had already passed over the veil and joined their loved one in the afterlife. But all of the headstones in this cemetery were new. The names were not worn and faded to the point of not being recognizable. These names were fresh; the etchings were dark and stood out against the gray stone. So why did no one care to leave a gift for these dead?

Unable to find an answer, James wound his way through the rows back to his car. He paused when he spotted someone standing at the gate – someone living, flowers in hand. Just standing there. James watched as the old man took a step toward the open gate. But the man stopped, as if he was unsure of himself. Then the man turned and headed for his beat up pick-up truck, letting the flowers fall out of his hand as he went – defeated. Confused and curious, James ran to catch up with the man, scooping up the flowers along the way. They were real. Fresh daises with a sweet fragrance.

“Sir! Sir. You dropped these.”

The old man looked at James with sadness in his deep blue eyes. “I know. I bought them for my wife. But I just can’t visit her here. It’s too hard. It makes it too real.” The door of his truck creaked as he opened it and climbed in.

“But she would love the flowers, Sir. Wouldn’t she? To know you still cared.” James approached the truck. He put his hand on the half-open window. “Sir?”

The weary man sighed. His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes. “I just can’t,” he breathed.

“What if I did it for you? What’s her name?” James insisted. Everyone deserved to be honored.

“Eva Grey.” The old man started his truck, and James stepped back. As he watched the sad stranger drive away, James knew why there were so many graves with no flowers or gifts for the dead. James had never seen cemeteries as sad places, as a final place. He’d always seen them as a doorway to the next life. But as he reflected on how defeated and broken the man had looked when he couldn’t cross the entrance to the place his wife rested now, James came to realize that most people didn’t see things the way he did.

James spent an hour searching the names on the headstones until he found Eva Grey. The dates on the stone indicated she’d lived a long, full life that had only just ended last month. He kneeled down and gently placed the daises at the base of the stone. The spirit of a small, frail elderly woman appeared on the grass beside him.

James smiled and spoke softly. “These are from your husband, Mrs. Grey. He misses you. And I’m sure he’s sorry for not bringing these himself sooner. I think the cemetery was too intimidating for him.”

The woman smiled at him with a half grin, nodding her head.

The dead never spoke.

James stayed with Eva Grey a while longer, just chatting about this and that. About the unadorned headstones and how James felt everyone deserved to be honored with gifts. He didn’t mind that it was a one-way conversation. As James talked to the woman that wasn’t a woman, he came to a conclusion. Someone needed to put out the flowers and gifts when those left behind couldn’t bring themselves to do it, and James decided that person was going to be him.

“And I will call it Grave Gifts Delivery Service! Thank you for a wonderful talk, Mrs. Grey.”

When James got home that day, he sat down at his computer and set about making a webpage to advertise his new service. He printed out cards and spent the next few days taking them to the local flower shops and gift shops around the town. He handed cards out at funeral homes and churches. James even went to the newspaper office and paid for an ad with his picture. And with each handful of cards he gave out, James explained what he was doing and why he was doing it.

“Sometimes it’s hard for people to see the grave. It makes it real, that they will never see the person in this life again. It makes for many graves with no flowers, no gifts, no one visiting and remembering the person that was once very real. Everyone deserves to be remembered and honored. I want to help make that happen.”

A few weeks went by. The phone didn’t ring. James worried that maybe no one cared about those unadorned graves. He stared at his empty order book and his webpage that had received no internet traffic. James was just about to give up.

Then the phone rang.

He stared at his phone for a moment, unsure he’d actually heard something. It rang again. James snatched up the phone and held it to his ear. “Hello,” he said in a less than confident voice.

The shaky voice of an elderly man sounded in James’ ear, “Is this, uh, Grave Gifts Delivery Service?”

“Yes. Yes, Sir, it is. My name is James Coleman. How can I help you?” James reached for his pen and order book, gaining confidence and surety as he spoke. He had a customer on the line!

“I saw your picture in the paper, young man. It’s a fine service you are offering, and I would like to put in a standing order with you,” the man said.

“Yes, Sir.” The voice sounded familiar to James, but he couldn’t figure out who the man was.

“I would like a dozen fresh daisies delivered once a week to the Rose of Sharon Cemetery over on Dover St,” the man instructed.

“Absolutely, Sir. And who am I delivering to?” James asked.

“Eva Grey. I believe you may know her.” The man sounded like he was smiling now. The shakiness had left his voice.

“Yes, Sir. Mrs. Grey and I go way back.” James smiled.

“Good.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Grey. Your wife knows you love her. She understands.” James listened to the momentary silence on the other end of the phone. He thought he heard a sniffle and a release of breath that might have been held in too long.

“Thank you, young man.” The line went dead.

James slowly hung up the phone. The old man with the beat up truck had seen his ad. He had called. Now the man didn’t have to worry. His wife would get her flowers. James smiled as he set about calling the florist and getting the daisies lined up for pick up that very day.

When James got back home from his delivery to Mrs. Grey, his eyes were drawn to a red number five flashing on the display of his answering machine. He pushed play and listened as he set about putting left over spaghetti into the microwave. Five more orders. Five more people hiring him to take flowers to their loved ones. James smiled as he sat down to eat. His fascination with cemeteries had finally paid off. He had a business that would help people who really needed it. He would help to ease people’s minds. He would be honoring the people that weren’t people. And he would be giving real flowers to people that were once very real themselves.