Every morning, precisely at 9:00 AM, the couple arrived at Oakwood Garden Cemetery. It was a sprawling, historic place where the oak trees acted as giant, leafy umbrellas. Michael’s plot was situated on a gentle slope, overlooking a small, lily-choked pond.
They didn’t just visit; they worked. Peter brought a small shears to trim the grass around the base of the headstone, while Mary used a soft microfiber cloth to buff the granite until it shone like a mirror. They talked to him about the mundane details of their lives—the neighbor’s new dog, the price of groceries, the weather. It was the only way to feel like they were still parents.
