She brought red roses to his grave everyday at the same time. The grounds keeper would welcome her, always with a warm smile. She would smile sweetly, but her lips held no happiness. She was too consumed in her grief to be happy. She walked solemnly alone. Always alone. No one ever accompanied her on her lonesome journey. Surely a lady as beautiful as she, had suitors. Perhaps she did not want a suitor. No matter what the reason, she was alone. Save for the grounds keeper who listened and watched from the shadows. The beautiful lady with her covered face knew he listened and she allowed him to. As he would pass by, the grounds keeper would hear her hum her daily prayer as she would delicately place the roses on the grave stone. Her prayer was full of tenderness.
"Flowers do blossom,
As you used to do.
Yet they must move on,
and died with you too.
Holy are roses,
laid on your grave
To give back the beauty
That you yourself gave.
Here I do stand,
roses in hand,
To mourn of your passing
but celebrate life of laughing
Rest well, you honorable soul,
until tomorrow, when I shall again console."
Thus the prayer went, day in and day out. No matter what the weather, no matter what the day, the shrouded woman would return with her roses to sing her sweet hymn. The grounds keeper grew to admire the lovely lady. He knew not who she was, nor did he care. She would return each day, and he would watch and listen until she left. When she would leave, she would go as quietly as she had come. Stopping only to smile at the grounds keeper. Then she would disappear around the corner of the cemetery, only to return tomorrow.
One wintry morning in the midst of November, she came as she had for so many years. She brought the roses and sang her hymn. All was as normal, until she left. What had overcome her, he could not guess. But the grounds keeper listened as she spoke her final words. She looked at him with sorrowful eyes and in a gracious voice spoke the words he would never forget.
"Thank you , dear grounds keeper. Always so kind. Remember, your devotion is never far from my mind."
And with that she left. The grounds keeper pondered these words all day long. They kept him awake that night as he considered their meaning. The next day, he waited anxiously for the beautiful woman, but she never came. Never had she missed a day, never had she been tardy. Something had changed, and the beautiful lady never brought the roses. This disturbed the man greatly. What had happened? He could only too well guess. Several days later, the grounds keeper visited the grave the woman had so often visited. The grave stone was worn, but the words were still clear.
Here lies Jon
Brother. Son. Husband.
The words were simple, but made the keeper cry. It was only then he noticed the new grave stone standing next to this man's grave. The stone read in newly carved letters,
Here is Clair
Wife, ever so fair.
The keeper knew too well who she could be. It was the beautiful woman with the roses. He cried for her and her lost lover. He cried for her loneliness and for her pain. The next day, the grounds keeper returned to the graves, their captives now united forever. He brought with him roses for each grave. He came at the same hour of the morning as the woman had so often done. Then he began to hum, and in his husky voice, recited the well known words.
"Flowers do blossom
As you used to do.
Yet they must move on,
and died with you too...."
And he continued, singing for this Jon and Clair, the song that had been sung so many times. He returned everyday with the flowers to sing, until he himself joined them in eternity.
To this very day, at those very same graves, everyday at precisely nine o'clock in the morning, someone still brings flowers, though the keeper died centuries ago. And when the roses appear, a light breeze blows through the cemetery. And on that breeze, the hymn is still sung through the trees. Though no one knows who, or how these roses appear, they do. And it is a mystery no one wishes to unravel.
