Lost Souls

Lila had never thought of cemeteries as frightening spaces. To her they had always felt tranquil, like quiet sculpture gardens where one could contemplate the brevity of existence. They had a certain somber energy that lingered in the memorial wreaths and mementos left by loved ones, but nothing that felt dark or dangerous to her. The newspaper headlines were a stark reminder that the dead were far less dangerous than the living.

Since she lived very close to Coldwood Cemetery Lila often walked the grounds in the late afternoon. While her neighbors were settling down to supper she was traversing one of the many winding pathways of the centuries-old site. She had come to recognize a pattern in the tributes left by the living. Lilies and pastel colors were for spring, gladiolus and bold arrangements for summer. In the autumn there were sunflowers and chrysanthemums and winter gave way to sprigs of spruce, fir, and holly. As she rounded a bend an unusual offering caught her eye. A circle of marigold blossoms had been placed at the base of a heavily-weathered slab.

Lila paused to inspect the stone. She was in one of the oldest sections of Coldwood where many of the names on the limestone markers had long ago been eroded away by wind and rain. This particular stone was also crusted over with lichens in patches of green and gray. The sharp aroma of the marigolds mingled with the mossy scent of the aged soil. Lila laid her hand upon the stone and wondered who would have left such odd little flowers for a person they could not possibly have known.

“It’s for the lost ones,” she heard someone say, and Lila couldn’t help but jump at the unexpected voice. She looked up to see a young woman farther ahead on the path, standing beside another small circle of marigolds. The woman was carrying a basket of the colorful flowers.

“Oh,” Lila replied. “For those names that can’t be read anymore?” The other woman thought for a moment.

“Not exactly. It’s for those with no one left to remember them. A little piece of their spirit stayed to help their loved ones, but sometimes that piece forgets how to move on when their families have healed. I’m just trying to help them find their way.”

Lila had heard people talk of helping spirits “move on” before. It had always felt to her that it was part of a manufactured persona, a shallow act to prey on the grieving. This woman was different. She wasn’t dressed in flowing skirts, billowing sleeves, bold colors and beads. She wasn’t creating a video advertising how she could help free the spirits of someone’s long-forgotten ancestors. She was just dressed in a nondescript pair of jeans and a tee shirt, walking through Coldwood, and placing little rings of flowers on old graves. Lila was certain that this woman wholeheartedly believed that she was benefiting lost souls.

Having nothing pressing to do, Lila asked “Would you like some help?” The other woman seemed genuinely surprised at the offer and accepted with a smile.

The two women moved deeper into the cemetery, making small talk and laying fragrant marigold flowers at the bases of many faded memorial stones. Cassie also lived close to Coldwood but only came on nights with a new moon. She said that moonlight hindered a spirit’s ability to see the bright yellow and orange flowers. She also said nights with a new moon tended to have less wind, helping the fragrance act as another guide to the spirits. Cassie clearly loved providing this little service to the dead.

“We’re almost to the last one,” Cassie said as they exited a small wooded patch on the grounds. Cassie pointed at a lone stone beneath a massive oak tree. “It’s right over there.”

Twirling a flower in her hand, Lila was struck by a sudden sense of loss. She’d been alone for as long as she could remember. She had run into others while on her walks in Coldwood, but generally those interactions only involved a brief nod and a bland greeting. The pungent marigolds made her think of her grandmother’s gardens and Lila suddenly realized that her last visit with her grandmother was the last time she felt so relaxed around another woman.

“This is surprisingly calming,” Lila said. “Can I join you again next month?” Cassie smiled softly.

“Let’s finish this one first,” Cassie replied. The two women knelt down before the cracked headstone and laid their hands on the earth. Lila felt a chill work its way up from her hand and pulled back for a moment. Cassie looked at her with utmost serenity and gently took her hand. “It’s alright, Lila, I’ll remember you.”

Lila hadn’t been remembering her grandmother; she was the grandmother. She remembered planting row upon row of vegetables with little marigold flowers between to keep the bugs at bay. Most people hated the smell, but she loved it. She used to cut a few flowers to place around her entryway to protect her family.

Shaking, Lila looked up at the stone. “Beloved” was the only word left that could still be read. She reached out gingerly and touched the pitted surface. Lila saw her family - her husband and children and their children. She saw her youngest granddaughter weeping and calling her to come back. Lila looked at the ring of flowers and the pillar of golden light that stretched upward into the sky. With tears in her eyes Lila looked back over to Cassie.

“Thank you,” she whispered. With a brief flash of light she was gone, the scent of marigold blossoms spiraling up into the sky.