Why does it always rain in graveyards?

Why does it always rain in graveyards?

The procession of gravestones is staring at me. That’s how it seems with not a soul about. I scan the horizon, a site littered with trees. Mainly yew. I can see people over the other side filing towards a plot. They are in the Muslim section. There’s a distinct lack of shrubs over there. My focus doesn’t linger on the mourners for long. Seconds only. There’s an awful feeling of defiling someone’s privacy by looking at them unduly. Turning back, my gaze returns to the headstone in front of me. All those dates etched in marble. Date of birth, date of death, married to loving husband Alan for eight wonderful years – a life in numbers.

I look down at my shoes. They are wet from the grass. People do that in graveyards – look down at their shoes. My eyes wander back to the task in hand. I am here to remember. My wife has been gone these two years since. I spend longer here now than at other times. In a few weeks it will be Christmas again. That was when she went - Yuletide. Contracted a virus; the tiniest of infinitesimally small things. Eventually ended up in a coma. I sat with her for weeks. We all hoped she would wake. She never did. Slipped away in the early hours. I never got to say goodbye. That hurts.

I used to talk to her. It was strange at first, what with her eyes closed and seemingly asleep. I understand patients like this can still hear. It was hard to tell. I reminisce. There was our wedding day. Dancing to Avalon by Roxy Music. Ah…Brian Eno. Genius. And the sleepy-eyed lead singer. Brian. Brian Ferry. We moved in gradual circles around the dance floor, so many staring, smiling.

That’s one of the strange things about today. Driving here, listening to the radio, a dedication was read out on air. It went along the lines of “…and this next song is for Alan from Mary. She says she knows you were there….” And then our song was played. That song. All a bit cryptic but it made me feel weird for a while. It must have been a different Alan and Mary. Mary’s dead. Spirits don’t contact deejays from beyond the grave. There’s always an explanation. Ghosts aren’t real.

There was the day we met our beloved pooch for the first time. A downbeat German Shepherd just lying down, feeling sorry for himself at the rescue centre. Mary had to have him. There was a bond straight away. The way he looked at us. Beguiling. Such a beautiful animal. Handsome. And Max became one of the family. She doted on that dog. I always wondered if it was compensating for us not having children. We tried. A couple of years into our marriage, she had fallen pregnant. Ended with a miscarriage.

Our daughter would be six years old by now. I’m not sure my wife ever recovered from that. I would catch her in moments of melancholy just staring into space. Miles away. We kept trying for kids. In the meantime, we had a canine surrogate. One that chased sticks in the park and lay at your feet in the lounge. Dog days.

Mary would have made a great mum. She used to play with our niece and nephew; my brother John’s kids. They loved her going round to their house. Games of catch with Max in the garden. The three of them would throw a tennis ball just high enough so that the woofer couldn’t catch it. The laughter and gigging would go on for ages. I would watch and, every so often, Mary would glance at me and smile. It was our wordless “I love you”. Afterwards, the adults would drink red wine around the kitchen table talking about the inanities of their respective day. There was always something to moan about. We never realised how good we had it. Life can be like that. Teach you a lesson.

It’s getting on and darkness will be here soon. I pull my coat tighter to keep out the cold. I don’t feel alone anymore. I sense a presence other than my own. That’s a precarious sensation in a graveyard. Turning, I see a little girl with her back to me. She is wearing a blue and yellow patterned zip-up coat and bobble hat. She appears to be staring at a grave. She is on her own. I peer all around for grown-ups but there’s nobody else here.  I take two steps towards her as she spins around, gracefully. She has an angelic face. Blonde hair creeps out from under her hat.

“Should you be on your own? I sound concerned “Is your mommy close by?”

She looks coy and glances at the ground. After a few seconds, she looks up again and nods shyly.

“Ah OK. Maybe I should take you to your parents. Would that be good with you? I just need a minute to finish here.” Again she thinks about it and then says “Yes. OK.” Before looking away.

I return to my quiet homage for a few moments more. Closing my eyes, I think of silence. I am at peace.

“She knows you were there. Mary loves you.”

Time stops as I process the sentence uttered from elsewhere. There’s only the two of us here. I open my eyes, slowly turn towards where the little girl is….and…..she’s gone. I move forward, the grass showering my feet with rainwater. She must be hiding behind a tombstone or something. I scour the nearest rows, staring hard at anywhere that could hide a child.  She’s not here. Surely she couldn’t have run that far, that quickly.

There is a man and a woman both holding umbrellas away in the distance. They are gliding between graves. I shout across and ask whether they saw a small child just now. They look at me like I am some sort of lunatic; eyes wide and shocked faces. They shake their heads and turn away. It’s another odd moment in what’s become the most curious of days.

I feel guilty for not taking her straight to her parents. I should call the police. Not sure how much I can tell them but I will do my best. I’ll do it on hands free on the journey back. My car’s close by as I head to the Audi. My mind is replaying the sentence only recently uttered:

“She knows you were there. Mary loves you.”

The child’s face swims across my conscience. She looked like Mary. Why didn’t I notice that straight away? I light a cigarette.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I strap my seatbelt on and turn the ignition key. I stare into the rear view mirror. After all that’s happened, perhaps I will see Mary’s face staring back. The only reflection is from my own tired eyes. The car radio comes on. Stand by Me by Ben E King is playing. I whisper “I miss you, Mary.” Nobody replies. Mist rolls across the graveyard as cars leave before nightfall.

Published @ DarkWinterLit Press September 2025

This is a revised version of a story posted on site in 2023.

Image free to use @ WikiCommons