Okay, so I don't normally write for this, but had an idea in my head. It's short and sweet, just a one-shot. I don't know the exact timeline, so if dates are off, then I'm just following when the movie was filmed and not when it was actually released.
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
The day was sunny and warm, much too beautiful and perfect for the task at hand. She gathered up the supplies that she had brought and placed them gently into the wheelbarrow that was next to her truck, the one that had been his. The gates made a creaky, whooshing noise as she pushed them open and wheeled through. They clanked together behind her when she let go. The gravel on the path crunched beneath the wheels and her feet as she walked. It was the same path that she had walked many times before, each time for the same purpose. So familiar.
Birds chirped in the trees above her, flying from branch to branch. She smiled sadly at them. Although her life had come to a standstill, the lives of nature continued on around her. One bird even landed on a stone next to her, his song filling the hair. She stopped to watch him. His head cocked and his dark eyes, like buttons, bore into hers. A rush of wind rattling the branches scared him off.
She took a turn off the path, right by the angel statue. Through the years, the angel had weathered, its wings were now a dingy color instead of the white marble that had been there when she had first begun her journey, five years before. Since then, countless stones had been erected. Rows and rows of granite and concrete were on either side of her. She read a few of the newer ones: Marvin Hershel 1930-2008, Susan Reynolds 1888-1956, Ivan Kryshnov 1956-2000. The years between dates shortened as she neared the children's area.
In this area, there were many more statues of puppies, more angels, and lambs. These headstones read: Kimberly Danson 1999-2001, Ryan Wilkins May 20, 1969-October 15, 1969. They all told the same sad story of a life that had been cut short before its time. Finally, she reached her destination. The headstone wasn't fancy, just a simple She set down the wheelbarrow and took the tools out, setting them gently on the uneven grass in a neat line. The gravestone was filthy, coated with dirt and grime of a year without being cleaned. She took a pair of clippers and began to trim the grass that had begun to creep over the site. Weeds were prevalent, dandelions and thistles dotted the area. She pulled the weeds, placing them in a bag to dispose of later. The dead flowers from last year also went into the bag. A brush was used to clean the first layer of dirt on the headstone. The older filth wouldn't come off, so she wet a cleaning cloth with some water from a nearby faucet. A little bit of soap and elbow grease took care of the dirt. She had to pick out the dirt that was encrusted in the etchings of the name and date. Once finished, she ran her fingers over the smooth grooves, silently mouthing the name.
The cleaning supplies were put back in the wheelbarrow, and she then took out a small bouquet of flowers. White lilies and roses. She buried her face in the roses, inhaling their sweet scent, before tenderly placing them in the bouquet holder. There were several, small pebbles lined up precisely along the edge of the stone as a mark of a visitor. She smiled inwardly. Someone else remembered. A nearby noise startled her and she jumped up, wiping her dusty hands on her jeans. An elderly man was at a nearby grave. "I'm sorry for disturbing you," he apologized. She smiled at him
"It's okay. I'm about to leave."
"It's so peaceful here, isn't it?" he said conversationally.
"Yeah, it is. Kind of creepy when you're here alone," she replied.
"But you're never alone," he said gesturing around him in a sweeping arc.
"True. We're surround by dead people."
"Dead people whom were loved."
"Yes, they were," she admitted.
"I'm just here to see my daughter. She's right over here," he said. She read the name, Hannah Ferrier 1948-1949.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"She's my baby. I loved her. You're here for someone also," he stated candidly.
"Yes," she stared at the newly cleaned grave.
"Was he someone special?" he asked, observing the headstone. Natalie read the name once again, her eyes now burning. Keith Zetterstrom 1987-2005.
"Yes, he was loved. Very, very loved."
Well, that's it. Thanks for reading!