Some Perfect Tomorrow: True Stories of Hope in Loss, Love in Grief, and Life in Death

Chapter 1: The Cry

She saw me in the cemetery, coming from a distance. Even though her attention was tightly fixed on his grave, she still saw me. I approached slowly and deliberately from the front so as not to startle her.

As I walked closer, I realized she was likely a new widow in her late 60s or early 70s. A bit plump, drooping shoulders, and a freshly bobbed hairdo from her weekly trip to the beauty shop. The dress was plain. The purse was huge. The spirit crushed.

Hello, I said, Is this a loved one you’re visiting today? She didn’t move. Except for a clump of hair recently unbobbed by the breeze, she looked like a statue. I stopped a few feet away and clasped my hands. A sign of respect.

You wouldn’t think such a common question would merit much more than a nod. Or at best, a subdued yes. Not today.

This was her day. Oh, how she needed this day.

Her head raised slightly. My husband died three months ago today. The quiver in her voice confessed she was still reeling from the shock. We were together almost 50 years. We never spent a day apart. Never. Not one day.

She walked around to the head of the grave. Tripping on a small stick, her age-spotted hand reached for something steady. The top of the headstone worked. Its steeled granite felt cool to the touch.

For fifty years we were always together, she said. Half a century.

She looked off into the distance and bit her lip. Recalling one of a thousand memories known only to her. Her face changed from nostalgia to anger. A deep breath primed her next words.

Do you see those sandspurs? Switching her purse to the other hand, she gestured toward the ground. A bony finger pointed to one of the only sprigs of greenery growing on her husband’s grave. Doesn’t anyone take care of this place? There’s nothing but dirt. Where’s the grass they were going to plant? There was supposed to be fresh sod and there’s nothing here but dirt!

She synchronized the word dirt with her foot kicking a clump of it into the air. It was a hot, dry day. Perfect weather for dirt kicking. The scene reminded me of a major league baseball manager arguing with the home plate umpire. Red Yankee Stadium clay billowing around his feet.

She threw her arms up in annoyance. Even his headstone is stained! What kind of cemetery is this? I wish I’d never buried him here. I wish.…

The motion caused the huge purse to slip off her shoulder. She bent her elbow, catching it just in time. Walking around to the back side of the headstone she lowered her head. Her eyes searched for something, anything, nothing. She circled back to her original spot at the foot of the grave. There were indentations in the ground where she’d been standing.

I replied softly as her words trailed off. Ma’am, I’m sorry. I’ve just begun working here at the cemetery. I’m not sure what I could do, but I….

As my own words trailed, I made a simple gesture. It was kind of a low shrug that would indicate my innocence for the accused crimes. I lifted my hands ever so slightly from where they’d been hanging and pleaded my case with outturned palms.

That was all she needed. She took my simple gesture as an open invitation. This precious, fragile human being simply melted into my arms. Like a pat of butter on hot toast.

She melted.

With her head buried in my shoulder and her much older arms wrapped around my much younger waist, she let it out.

The cry.

This was the one she’d been holding in since her husband’s death. She cried the cry. The initial groan was somehow low and high pitched at the same time. She squeezed those older arms so tightly it nearly knocked the breath out of me. Her whole body was shaking now. It was that involuntary tremble from somewhere deep inside. I’d experienced it before. I knew how it felt.

I miss him so much, she said. Her words hovered between a whisper and a sigh.

Mixing themselves with the groans almost like a foreign language. I—miss—him—so—much. The breathy words formed as she inhaled. Her voice was weak. Words turned to moans.

She cried. In the middle of a cemetery. On a normal peaceful sunny day. With a perfect stranger.

It must have lasted only a few minutes. Though it seemed much longer for me—an eternity, even. She didn’t need anyone to kill the sandspurs. Fresh sod on his grave was not going to solve this problem. No one needed to fire the cemetery manager. She just needed the cry.

Lifting her head from my shoulder she squared my eyes to hers.

Do you think someone could at least clean the headstone for me? A welcomed tone of normalcy returned to her voice. The hint of a smile.

I relaxed my hold around her waist. She stood up straight and stepped back a little. Hug completed. Cry cried. Shifting our weights to get comfortable, we stood apart.

I winged my shoulders back with military resolve. Yes ma’am. I will have it cleaned first thing tomorrow. I’ll also see what we can do about the sod and the sandspurs. She looked away, then back at me.

Thank you, she said.

The smile was more than hinting now. Her face looked washed out. Cleansed. A byproduct of a good sob. Tear tracks settled in the care lines carved into her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

It was one of those rare times in my life. I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Those moments are few. They can’t be planned. The stuff real life is made of.

I couldn’t wear that suit jacket again until the day I picked it up from the cleaners. Some of her best tears anointed the lapel.

The beauty of life often invades the mystery of death.

There’s a lady out there somewhere who still misses her husband. She may not remember an anonymous hug in the middle of a cemetery. Or a stranger in a dark blue suit.

A stranger who will never forget the cry.

Sparks of Life

There’s no time limit on grieving, nor is there a set schedule. Some well-meaning folks will tell you there is. They’re wrong. Mourning, yes. We can’t mourn forever; yet sometimes grief never leaves us. What is important is to recognize the difference between mourning and grief.

~

If you’ve lost someone close, you’ll most likely go through all the emotions known to humankind. Sadness, anger, bitterness, regret, denial, among many others. These may come at any time, in any order and in any combination. In fact, if you are not experiencing any of these check your pulse. These emotions are normal, even—in some cases—healthy. After all, you are human.

~

It’s not unusual for someone who needs you to fall into your path. You could just as easily fall into theirs. While you certainly shouldn’t go looking for these encounters, be silently prepared for them. There’s a reason you live on this planet and share its space with others. They need you. You need them.

~

Some perfect tomorrow does exist. It exists in an imperfect today. A shadowed yesterday. In empathy created every time we peek into another soul. In their struggle. In you.

Chapter 2: Grandpas and Angels

Oh, I’m sorry, Grandpa said. He lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders. I didn’t know there was someone else in here.

It’s okay. I’m just waiting. Was the only reply.

The semiprivate hospital room contained two beds. The one by the window was empty. The other provided comfort for the precious lady with whom Grandpa spent the last 65 years. Sadly, this bed would also be the last place on earth she would be alive.

Only moments after Grandpa peeked around the privacy curtain and saw the just waiting man at the window, he turned back to her bedside and again took her hand.

He’d held her hand more times than he could remember. On their first date when his was a little sweaty. At the altar when she looked into his hopeful eyes.

Of course, I do, sweetie. She’d said in her western Pennsylvania chime. Promising to spend the rest of her life with him. At their 50th wedding anniversary a few years back surrounded by all their children.

Today.

Today, he held it tighter than usual. He watched her chest faintly rise and fall as it did for several days now. He sat like a soldier at her bedside. Rarely surrendering his grip.

Her chest fell and didn’t rise again.

In one swift and timeless moment, she was gone.

Grandpa loosened his grip. There’s no way of knowing what he was thinking. No way of visualizing what must’ve been whirling around inside his mind. He just wasn’t ready to let her go.

Eventually he did. The muscles in his hand fought hard against the signals from his brain to release his grip. The yearning in his heart to keep holding on to hers. Grandpa stood up and just looked at her face. He knew it better than his own. Somehow, he finally found the strength to look away. He stepped around the curtain and couldn’t believe what he saw. The window offered only its daylight, washing the room in pale yellow and white.

The man who was standing there a few seconds ago was gone. He was simply no longer there. There was no way the man could have left the room without passing by. There were other family members outside the door. Surely, they would’ve seen him.

Melissa, did you see anyone come out of your Grandma’s room just now? Grandpa asked. He thumbed his earlobe like he always did.

No sir. Melissa said. She held in a chuckle as she caught herself thumbing her own earlobe. Rob and I have been sitting right here. We haven’t seen anyone. She leaned back in her chair and continued flipping magazine pages. Innocently unaware her grandmother just died.

Grandpa checked the room again. He peeked into the little bathroom, looked around the room once more. He would have noticed the man leaving. Grandpa noticed everything. Yet, this time, he did not.

Nor did anyone else.

In those final moments of life, when death is only a few breaths away, some odd tales are told. You don’t have to talk with many people before this kind of story surfaces. These are the events which let us know there’s more to living life on Planet Earth than we could ever know. More mystery. More puzzles. More incomprehensible happenings.

In the weeks following, Grandpa talked about the man in the room. He just looked different. I’m telling you. He was different. His standard reply whenever the subject was raised. Those last few moments of Grandma’s life have swirled around in my head every single day since her passing.

Grandpa closed his eyes. Thumbed his lobe. He remembered the details. Those principal elements in the little scene.

Holding her hand.

Peeking around the curtain.

I’m just waiting….

Her last breath.

The empty window.

He knew what he’d seen. He knew the man was real.

It’s impossible to live with another person for such a long time and not have this mysterious bond develop. Call it what you will: love, affection, familiarity.

There are those who believe there’s nothing more to it than chemical reactions in the brain.

Some things just can’t be explained no matter how hard we try.

Grandpa swore until the day he joined Grandma it was an angel who was waiting for her. He told a few of his children. None of them believed him. The only person who did was one of his youngest granddaughters. She had no problem with the story. I guess it depends on your frame of mind. Your perspective.

Sometimes grown-ups can miss what only a child or a grandpa can see.

Sparks of Life

When you lose someone close to you, realize there are mysteries about life and death you just can’t explain.

~

Remember when you were a child and you had that sense of wonder? A little slice could be comforting during the unexplainable times.

~

The connection you have with those close to you goes far beyond a physical