a holiday story

Dec 11 / Jan 12 | by Donna Soper

It was Dec. 22, 2005, and as usual, I was still rushing around from store to store in an effort to find just the right gifts for those hard-to-buy-for relatives. My mind was cluttered with a long to-do list that I was running out of time to actually do before Christmas Day.

When I pulled into the parking lot of a local department store, it was naturally full, so I had to wait for a spot to become available along the far side of the building. As I squeezed my car into the tight space, I realized I was looking out onto a large cemetery that was adjacent to the commercial shopping center. I gathered my purse and keys and was just about to get out of my car, when I looked up and happened to notice an older man sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a grave marker that was situated beneath a large shade tree, a few yards away from the parking lot. He appeared to be talking, though there was no one else in sight, and he had two large drinking cups at his side, almost like he was having a picnic with someone.

I sat and watched him for a few minutes as my thoughts began to shift from the tasks before me to a curiosity about this man, sitting alone in a cemetery, three days before Christmas, talking to himself. The urgency I had felt to run in the store, select a few truly unneeded gifts and race back home began to dissipate. I was mesmerized by the man’s thoughtful posture and sense of calm. He seemed completely removed from the hustle and bustle going on all around him. Not wanting to further intrude on his private moment, I got out of my car and headed toward the store. But, I couldn’t stop thinking about the man. I wondered about the person that he was presumably talking to and why he was there on that day.

When I finished my shopping some time later, it was almost dusk, and the man was gone. I walked down to the cemetery near that spot where he had been sitting. And, while I wasn’t exactly sure I had found the right grave marker among the many nearby, I’d like to think that I did when I came across one that had two names, a man’s and a woman’s, both with their dates of birth, but only the woman’s had a date of death: Nov. 5, 2005. Engraved above their respective names were the words: Her Sweet Man, His Sweet Woman.

I have thought about that man—and his wife—often over the years, especially when I go to that store. There he was, barely a month after she had died, sitting alone and having a conversation with her, perhaps telling her how much he missed her, how much he loved her or how he would have liked to have shared another Christmas together.

Since then, I have tried to remind myself of that brief glimpse I had into a stranger’s grief during the holiday season, so that I never take for granted the family and friends who are still part of my life and with whom I am able to share the holidays. And, so that during the rush each year to get all of those folks the perfect gift—such as the latest electronic gadget or designer fashion—I pause to remember that time spent together is the most precious gift of all.

Before writing this story, I went back to the cemetery and walked past that grave marker. It was covered with pine needles and when I brushed them away with my hand, I noticed that there was now a newly engraved date beneath the man’s name; he had died just two years later. How sad, I thought. But then after a moment, it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t so sad after all. Her Sweet Man had gone to join her, just in time for the holidays.