Mourner in the Morning

            A cold front had blown in overnight, so the morning air felt crisp and cool. Flecks of mica sparkled in the granite gate to Raleigh’s Oakwood Cemetery, and the foliage lining the path hinted at the reds and golds to come. In the Beechwood section, the stark memorial statue of Etta White still had two weeks to go before her annual head turn on October thirty-first. But Halloween definitely hung in the air.

            Ellen and I had a standing agreement to walk in Oakwood once a week. If we followed each winding path, we could get our two-mile trek in and then reward ourselves with coffee and a Krispy Kreme on Person Street. This particular day we’d met a little later, after ten, so traffic was light.  Only two power walkers overtook our ambling pace. “Let’s turn here before anyone runs us over,” I said, only half joking.

            Ellen looked at me, looked up at the hill to our right, and sighed. “Fine.” She’s not a fan of hills.

            Huffing, we climbed past the Hall of Memory and around to Chapel Circle, then cut between the CSA gravestones to Hickory Avenue. “Look.” Ellen pointed. “It’s there again this year.” Someone had hung Dollar Store skeletons, Day of the Dead skulls, and rubber bats from a magnolia limb above a decades-old grave. Other symbols of loved ones still remembered dotted the well-manicured plots: bright sunflowers, faded roses, two mini bottles of Jack Daniels. 

            Ahead to our left, a roaring yellow backhoe dug space for the next cemetery resident.  Soon Ellen and I had to veer off the path to avoid a flooded spot. I thought that was just as well, because I didn’t want to disturb the lone mourner I’d noticed standing under a green funeral awning on the other side of the pavement.

            She had her back to us, so I hadn’t seen her face. Her figure had been tall and slim, with shoulders hunched as if she had crossed her arms in front of her chest. She wore some kind of gray sweater and slacks. In front of her, obviously the focus of her attention, was a new grave covered with wilting funeral wreaths. The wire stands that had held the arrangements had toppled over and lay like tangled wire coat hangers on the packed earth.

            Odd, I though. From the state of the flowers, the funeral must have been days ago. Maybe she’d missed it and had come late to pay her respects.

            Neither Ellen nor I said anything as we walked along the bank opposite the woman. It wasn’t until we turned in front of the mausoleum at the cemetery’s north end that I ventured to comment. “Poor woman. All alone like that.”

            Ellen creased her brow. “Who are you talking about?”

            “That lady we passed. The one under the awning back there.”

            She stared at me as if I’d gone batty. “What woman?”

            “The one—.” I turned around. Behind me I saw the awning and the backhoe and the dead flowers and the fresh graves. No gray woman was anywhere to be seen.