The Memories We Keep. Buffy Andrews

She watched who came and who went and took care of the grounds, especially the child’s grave. She was particular protective of it.

      Once, a passerby stopped at the grave and, after looking around to make sure no one was watching, started to remove one of the tiny teddy bears wired to the small Christmas tree. The old woman, who had been watching from her leafy lair, lumbered over to the grave and grunted. The young girl jumped up and ran away.

      Then the old woman, clutching her nubby walking stick for support, lowered herself to the frozen ground. Her dirty fingers, poking through the ends of her tattered black knit gloves, twisted the bear back onto the branch. A smile crawled onto the old woman’s face. She didn’t smile often and when she did, it was like lifting a ten-pound sack of potatoes. Usually it took too much effort and she gave up, but she was proud that she had stopped the thief. Proud of what she considered her duty – to guard the graves here, especially the boy’s. She had been here the spring day he was put in the ground.

      The old woman winced when she saw the small coffin. It was mahogany with paneled sides, pillared corners and brass handles. She had watched as two men carried the casket from the black hearse to the grave and placed it on straps attached to a chrome frame. The woman, she figured it was the boy’s mother, had wailed uncontrollably.

      Two Septembers had passed since that overcast day and Halloween was sneaking up fast. The old woman hated Halloween. It always brought pranksters to the cemetery, and they disturbed her peace. They did stupid things. They said stupid things. They were just plain stupid, the old woman thought, and resented them for encroaching on her territory.

      The old woman loved Christmas best. And she was especially looking forward to this Christmas. She figured the boy’s mom would return with the Christmas tree decorated with the tiny teddy bears. And, this year, she had something special to add.

      The old woman watched as the young woman’s red car maneuvered through the cemetery’s ornate wrought-iron gates and onto the busy street. The old woman had never owned a car. The only thing she owned that had wheels was the collapsible metal shopping cart she’d found on a garbage heap at a house on the edge of town. Everything she owned was inside that cart, and where she went, the cart went.

      The old woman crawled out of the bushes. She stood, shaking herself like a wet dog. Fall meant leaves and leaves meant extra grooming. So she always shook when she got up in the morning to chase away the dead leaves that had found refuge in her hair and clothes during the night.

      She looked toward the teddy bear grave. She always checked the grave before heading out for the day. She stuffed her dirty plaid throw into the metal cart along with her walking stick. She pushed the cart over the lumpy ground to the grave. She couldn’t remember what day it was, but she always knew what holiday was near. The cemetery told her that.

      Small American flags and red, white and blue flowers and ribbons meant Memorial Day, Fourth of July or Veterans Day. Purple and white meant Easter. Red and green, Christmas. Then there were the special flowers for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, many of which incorporated “mother” or “father” in the arrangement. Lately, the cemetery had been a sea of yellows and browns and oranges. And on the little boy’s grave sat a big plastic pumpkin.

      There was little about the cemetery she didn’t know. She had lived there for the better part of her sixty years. It was her home, her life. And she often wished that it would be her final resting place.

      The old woman dragged her cart down the crumbling stone cemetery steps and headed toward town. The soup kitchen would be open by now, and her stomach hurt like she had been hit in the gut by a fastball. She licked her thin, chapped lips. She hoped for eggs. And, if she were lucky, maybe a piece or two of bacon.