My husband passed away in his early fifties. As a part of the grieving process, I made a habit of visiting his grave every weekend, taking care of the plot, and having silly one-sided conversations with him about how my week had been.
After a few months of this, I noticed that the grave next to my husband’s didn’t seem to have anyone looking after it. There was a woman’s name on the gravestone that I did not recognize, and she, too, seemed to have passed away relatively young.
My husband was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met, and I figured he’d appreciate it if I took care of his “neighbour”, as well. I started also keeping this unknown woman’s grave tidy, planting flowers in the spring, lighting candles for All Hallows, etc.
This went on for about three years. Then, one weekend, I arrived to find a man standing in front of the woman’s grave. He looked pretty worn and shabby, and he stank of cigarette smoke. I introduced myself, and when I explained who I was and why I had been looking after the grave, he started crying.
It turned out the woman was his little sister. He’d been estranged from his family for a long time, due to a combination of alcoholism and general bad luck. He hadn’t been invited to the funeral, and no one had told him where her grave was.
Now, his parents had passed away, as well, and as he was the last living member of his family, he’d decided to try to track down his sister’s last resting place.
He was just so touched and grateful that I, a complete stranger, had cared enough to look after his sister.
We started meeting up almost every weekend after that to take care of our lost loved ones, and I got to watch him gradually get back on his feet, get an apartment and a job, and get healthy again. Once he had a solid ground to stand on again, he turned out to be funny, smart, and charming, and we began spending time together outside of the graveyard.
This weekend, he’ll become my second husband. I guess we both had someone looking out for us, as well.
