The Blue Van

I walk my dog in the cemetery on Washington Avenue. Actually, we go back through the bike path and past the water treatment plant, but we park in the cemetery and start from there. It's a nice place for a walk, and there are often others about, either in the cemetery or along the bike path.

One cold and rainy day (Keller, my dog, can often convince me to take him even on the worst days. His powers of persuasion are impressive) I decided to take a different route, not along the bike path, but swinging around to a newer section of the cemetery. This route is shorter, and I would never be more than a sprint away from where I'd parked the car, in case the sky decided to make good on its promise of a downpour.

I was walking with my head down, chin tucked against the wind, leaden clouds scuttling low overhead, when I noticed a blue van parked alongside the access road in front of me. I was a bit surprised. The cemetery was deserted that day and this was the first car I'd seen. The van was empty. I lifted my head and glanced about for the driver, casting my gaze up and down the rows of markers. I found him sitting in front of a tombstone about twenty yards away. He was wearing a blue windbreaker, the wind lifting a lock of his gray hair. His back was to me. I never saw his face.

Have you ever arrived at church after the service has started and had to sneak into the back? That's the way I felt with this man in this cemetery. I turned off my mp3 player and tiptoed past, keeping to the far side of the road, careful not even to jiggle the tags on my dog's collar. He could not have heard me, but that didn't matter. Something about this scene demanded my deference. I soon as I was past I glanced back to see if I had disturbed him. He hadn't moved.

In the days that followed I passed by the cemetery often. Every time, I looked for the blue van. Three or four times I spotted it there, although I have not seen it in recent months.

I think of the old man every now and then, sitting in front of that tombstone. I imagine he comes to talk to his wife, to tell her news of the children, although he doesn't hear much. They are, after all, busy spinning lives of their own. I imagine he tells her of her flowerbeds. He's still watering them. They need weeded but he's afraid to do so, fearing he will pull the flowers with the weeds. He tells her what he has read in the newspaper, who has died and who is ill, who has married and who has divorced. He tells her he needs to eat better but has little desire to do so. He tells her he's no longer angry that she left him, that the pain he felt at her passing has faded, leaving in its place only an emptiness he cannot fill.

He rises then and folds his chair, wincing at the pain that has crept into his knees. He places a hand upon the cold stone and tells her to wait for him, to be patient, he will be along shortly. A minute later the van roars to life and the cemetery is empty, motionless save for leaves blowing against the ground.