Flowers at a Grave

‘Oh, look, there are flowers at his
grave,’ said my aunt dismissively, suddenly reaching for her handkerchief. We
stood in the graveyard, on a bright May day. The shadows of the graves loomed
black and solid across the grass. Some graves were covered in flowers; some
new, some withered. One stone had blue football scarves and regalia. One had
political slogans.

The one we were examining was
plain, upright, granite, much like the person whose life it commemorated. He
had had a stormy crossing, a remarkable journey, now over, now at peace. It
seemed someone else, apart from his family and his church, had chosen to
remember him, too. It was a strong part of our background, with the emphasis so
much on the next world, that flowers are inappropriate at a grave. Now, in
defiance of this ban, there was a bouquet of flowers at the grave. It was a
very small bouquet, already wilting in the sun, but it broke the even lines of
the grass and the granite, the stems like plaintive fingers, reaching up to the
silent stone.

There was no need
to speak. My aunt might have disdained the flowers out of habit or from
conviction. But the fact was, we were there, bringing flowers with our
thoughts.