her, the stone, and the wreath

I cut through the cemetery today.
It’s not a habit I have, but I was in a hurry, and the town’s cemetery is nicely placed between a neighborhood and the shopping area, so it’s the perfect place to sneak through and avoid traffic.

The names passed me as I crept through:
Kapp
Miller
Mueller
Weiss
Morris
White
…..”Lots of English and German, here,” I muttered as my mind began to scan memories of what I knew of the settlers of this area. Maps appeared in my mind’s eye, and then a timeline.
Dates formed along the timeline.
“Now what was the date on that stone? Lots of transplants here in the past century, so it’s probable these aren’t descendants of original townspeople. But, then again, I think there’s an older cemetery outside of town…”

I was a solid minute into a discussion with myself when I saw her:
A single figure in the center of the cemetery.

She didn’t notice me.
I doubt she noticed the buds on the trees, the unseasonably warm weather, or the traffic streaming behind the fence, either.

I slowed to a crawl and watched her hold up a wreath, frown at it, and then turn to face a headstone. It was a new stone, probably less than a year old, and lit up like a Christmas tree with decorations. Ribbons fluttered in the breeze as she inspected the wreath again.
She placed the wreath on the ground, leaned it against the stone, said something, and adjusted it.
Adjusted it again.
Picked it up, fluffed the flowers, and put it on the other side.
Then she stepped back and stared at it.

I felt like I had invaded a private decorating moment in someone’s living room, like any minute someone would say, “Eh, I don’t like it there, move it a little to the left.” Even though she was in direct view of, well, everyone, she didn’t see them.
It was just her, the stone, and the wreath.

I decided to never cut through the cemetery again.

Because the Millers, the Kapps, and the Whites aren’t just English and German surnames or shaded places on a map depicting Western Expansion. They aren’t faceless shapes along a timeline.
Once, their stones had wreaths.
Someone adjusted them, replaced dead flowers with fresh ones, and watched ribbons dance in the wind.

Some hadn’t seen a wreath in half a century.

I turned into traffic just outside of the cemetery, and allowed myself one more look.
She was still standing there, wrapped in a sweater with hair wild in the wind, and she still didn’t care.

It was just her, the stone, and the wreath.