They

It was the perfect spring day. Really, you couldn’t ask for a better one. The sky held exactly two large fluffy white clouds like two pillows cushioning the sun. Nothing remained of the heavy storm of two days ago except the occasional puddle. The thermometer that always hung outside the window by my bed read 72 degrees, a rarity for Duluth, Minnesota even in July, much less May. Being the realist I am, I figured such a nice day completely justified a day off, so I packed my camera in a bag and, even though it’s Memorial Day and all, decided to head to Clements Cemetery to browse around.

To be completely honest, I love going to the cemetery, especially on days with beautiful weather. Don’t knock it until you try it. They’re usually well maintained, and it makes a wonderful place to sit and meditate. Besides, being a songwriter as well as a photographer, I’m managed many a (yet unknown) song inspired by a day at the cemetery. For example, one day I stumbled on the following set of gravestones:

Joseph Carter (b Feb 2, 1888; d Aug 7, 1929)

Lucy Haskins Carter (b June 13, 1896; d May 24, 1930)

Christopher G Carter (b June 10, 1915; d Dec 1, 1915)

Louise B Carter (b May 16, 1923; d June 2, 1923)

Mary M Carter (b Apr 22, 1921; d June 4, 1925)

Donald B Carter (b Jan 3, 1917; d Oct 16, 1928

I know absolutely nothing about this particular family, of course, but the amount of sadness that house must have seen moved me. The next day I wrote “A Lament to the Carters”. You probably haven’t heard that before, but the regulars at Mickey’s used to request it all the time. In fact, it’s the only song of mine to ever be requested. However, I usually choose to avoid the cemetery on Memorial Day, as there’s usually far too many people for my liking. The weather that day was too good to pass up, though.

On this particular day, I noticed for the first time a valley behind a hill on the south side (all the way in the back). There were no walking paths to that area, so as you might imagine, it was empty. I figured that suited me just fine as I climbed down the (rather steep) hill. When I reached the bottom, I saw there were about a dozen headstones here I had never seen before, all in a row. The first one told me this was probably here before the cemetery was. After scanning the stones (all death dates from the Civil War), I turned my head to continue exploring. That’s when I saw her.

She was lying next to a headstone far newer than most of the others in the cemetery. Her eyes were closed, and she was whispering to the stone, if such a thing were possible. Or now that I think about it, maybe she was praying. She looked close to my age (I was 25 at the time), but she was clearly still in the dawns of youth. Her chocolate hair flowed in what I assumed were natural waves. Her almond face betrayed not a single wrinkle or scar; the most envious of complexions. She was wearing a simple blue dress, which flowed comfortably passed her knees. She was probably shorter than me (I’m 5’10), but she still gave off a quiet strength. What really made it sizzle, though, were the daffodils. There were probably a thousand of the yellow flowers surrounding both her and the stone. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life. Trying to be incognito, I pulled out my camera and began to snap pictures. I had only managed two before I was noticed.

“Hey!” she shouted, not unkindly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry,” I replied sheepishly. “You were just too picture perfect to ignore.”

Amused, she stood up and started walking toward me. “Let me see,” she insisted. When she came over, I noticed her eyes. They were a very deep blue, almost purple. I had never seen such warm, kind eyes. They radiated joy, even in the midst of a cemetery. By the time she reached me, I had the pictures pulled up. She scrutinized them, seemingly trying to find a reason to say she didn’t like them. After a minute or two, she looked at me with a begrudging smile. “Alright, I concede. Those are good. But I want the first copy.”

I returned her smile. “Not a problem at all,” I said, extending my hand. “Edward Gordon Alfred Blake is my name, but everyone calls me Gabe.”

The girl shook my hand with a questioning look. “How’d you get Gabe from that?”

“It’s my initials anagrammed. My kindergarten teacher’s idea,” I said. “What can I call you?”

“Christina Smith,” she replied. “My friends all call me Chris.”

“Chris it is,” I agreed. “What brings you all the way down here? I didn’t know this part of the cemetery existed.”

“Here, I’ll show you.” She led me over to the stone. It read:

Theyer Robert “They” Smith

Born September 1, 1990

Died May 28, 2036

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust

“They? His name was they?” I asked.

Chris shook her head. “They. Emphasis on the ‘h’. Like ‘thought’.”

“Who was he?”

“My father,” Chris replied, her voice adding a note of awe.

“It must be rough, today being the tenth anniversary of that day,” I say. “How old were you if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Fourteen. It is tough, especially today. I miss him more than ever. I get to talk to him, though, so that helped some,” Christina replied.

“You come here often?” I asked, ignoring the talking to dead people part.

“Not since last Memorial Day. I come once a year to make sure the daffodils remain and to tell him about the things in my life.”

At this point, it became impossible for me to resist taking the shot. You can only see so many fastballs before you have to swing. Besides, my friends don’t complain about me knowing when to keep my mouth shut. “You do know he can’t hear you, right? He’s dead.”

OK, so I never learned tact. Sue me.

“Only his body, Gabe,” Chris insisted, which brought an even more radiant smile, something I didn’t figure was possible. “His spirit is as alive as ever.”

I shrugged. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

Her eyes took on a flirty gleam. “Tell you what, Mr. Know-it-All. It’s almost noon and I’m getting hungry. Why not take me to Grandma’s for lunch, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she suggested.

Well, that was easy, I thought. “Sure. I don’t have my car, though.” I didn’t have any car, actually.

“Oh, that’s alright. It’s a nice day, and Grandma’s is only a few blocks away. Walk with me.”

I think I’m in love, I thought.

We went into Grandma’s and ordered. Before the food arrived, Chris began to tell me a story that took all of that summer to complete. It’s a story that left me so completely overcome with amazed disbelief, I had to verify it. Having spent the better part of the last two years doing just that, I am now convinced of its authenticity and must share it. It’s too spectacular of a story not to share. I’ve never written anything longer than an essay, so I admit this is a completely new undertaking for me. I only hope I can do the story justice. I may be a poor storyteller, but the story must be told. Said story (as I pieced it together later, not strictly as it was originally told to me) goes like this: