A grieving person has a spiritual encounter in a graveyard

I stood before a tombstone, black rock glittered as the sun’s rays fell upon it, illuminating an incomplete inscription. “Husband William Jacobs 1930-2023 and Wife Mary Jacobs 1935 –”  

“I pray to die,” my mother’s voice echoed in my mind. “You’ll understand once your love leaves you.”  

Beyond the stone sat a white picket fence, a barrier between solid ground and the cliff. Below, the salt wind drove the dark waters onward, goading frothing waves to madness, abandoning them to crash upon the rocks. Then the wind flowed upwards, over the cliff face, where it stung my eyes, causing me to weep.  

Grey moved across the sky, obscuring the light; a chill fell upon the graveyard. I wiped my eyes, trembling, I swept my gaze across the hazy silhouette of shoreline. Reluctant to linger where I stood, I turned and saw a shape before me. Terror sprung in my mind as the apparition’s slender limb brushed my cheek.  

“Just a pine.” With those words, terror thawed, uncovering grief underneath.  

I pushed the limb aside, disrupting the illusion like a swift wind through fog. The ancient pine was hunched, its edges blurred by scattered needles that clung to weathered branches. The wind gusted, causing the limbs to dance. I moved with them, stepping underneath, directed by the wind, I passed the tree and emerged into a clearing.  

Here the truly old rest, each tombstone crafted from flaking white stone, all slanted in soft soil. It was amongst these stones the blueberries grew, their skin the colour of Atlantic water.  

Grief sprouted in my throat like the arms of a bindweed. My voice broke, “Beautiful.”  

I found an old stump, sat and began to pluck the berries as my mind swirled with memories of my family, whole and happy, picking berries together.  

The vision faded, replaced by a table, surrounded by men and women dressed in black, each shared a story; we laughed and cried.  

“Remember our memories of him. We should take comfort in honouring him.”  

At the centre of the table rested a bowl of blueberries. 

“They’re beautiful, each a blue droplet; don’t neglect them, these are our sweet gifts. Eat and rejoice in them. But be sure to share or else they are wasted.”  

The berries glinted in the lamplight as we lifted them to our mouths, grief within my heart roared like a tempest, yet as we partook of the berries, memories and good company pierced the gale and guided me like a lighthouse to safe harbour.  

High above the graveyard, a beam of light burst through the clouds. I popped a berry in my mouth, felt the flesh burst, tasted the juice pool on my tongue. I sobbed one last time. Then I raised my head and let the sun dry my cheeks. I stood and returned to my father’s grave, ran a finger over the etching, “Husband William Jacobs.” I placed a handful of berries on the soft moss.  

“I love you Dad,” I whispered. “I’ll bring Mom with me next time.”  

I stood and smiled as warm, salt air played across my cheek. The wind rose began to dance and underneath the creaking of the pine and swishing grass, I could have sworn it whispered, “I love you, little lamb.”