~Outside POV~
There was a man who visited the cemetery every week, on Sunday, without fail.
He was always dressed in black, and he always had a dog with him.
Jessica only knew this because her daily run, which she completed just after seven in the mornings, took her directly past the small cemetery connected to the local Baptist church, and he was only ever there with his dog on Sundays. The dog was beautiful, with a long, silky coat of brown and white fur that clearly received extensive care.
She couldn't help but wonder who it was that he visited. By the time she looped back around on her run, about an hour after she would have first passed him, he would be gone. She couldn't tell how old he was, either. She was too far to ever get a good look at his facial features, and while his lean build spoke of youth, the slump in his shoulders was one that came with old age and heartbreak.
Jess had been taking the same route for her runs for the past three years, since she and her husband had retired and moved into the quiet suburban neighborhood they now called home. To Jess's knowledge, the unknown man had started to visit the cemetery about three weeks previous.
The dog hadn't been with him the first two weeks, and Jess wondered if he'd gotten the dog to help him with his grief. That's what her sister-in-law had done, after her oldest son unexpectedly died of an undiagnosed heart condition, and the woman had told Jess that choosing to get a canine as a support system was the best decision she'd ever made.
While she didn't know the man personally, Jess still hoped that he was finding some comfort in the dog. Grief was such a messy emotion, she knew, and no one ever really learned how to overcome it; they simply learned how to live with it, like it was some unfortunate illness that laid dormant for the most part, only to flare up with a vengeance and cripple its host in random attacks.
Typically, Jess only thought of the man on Sundays, when she would jog past and spy him and his dog staring at the same headstone that they always came to visit. Recently, however, she'd begun to think about him during the week, usually when she saw a young couple and pondered over the possibility that the poor man had lost his spouse.
What pain that would cause. She couldn't imagine losing her husband of forty-three years. It would probably lead to her own death—one caused by heartbreak. Then again, it could be the man's mother or father; it seemed odd to her that, if either parent was still living and involved in his life, that they would allow him to mourn alone.
Still, Jess didn't feel comfortable approaching the man in the cemetery. For one, she wanted to respect his space. Two, she doubted he would appreciate knowing that some stranger had been watching him every week.
Of course, she could pass it off as the old woman in her, who never wanted to see someone of the younger generation suffering without support.
Although she was torn between offering a maternal presence and allowing the man his space, the decision was made for her when, on one Sunday, she approached the cemetery at her regular time only to discover that the man was not standing in his usual spot.
Instead, he was crouched by the gate leading into the field of headstones, one hand against the metal fencing, the other cupped over his mouth to muffle his sobs. His shoulders shook with the pressure of his sorrow, and his beautiful dog was nudging at him insistently, little whines escaping its mouth.
Jess felt her own heart ache with sympathy, and she slowed to a walk as she approached the pair.
The dog noticed her first, and she was inwardly stunned by just how quickly it went from trying to comfort its owner to watching her cautiously, muscles taut with tension as it tried to determine if she posed a threat.
Halting a few feet from the man, she crouched as well. "Hello, hon," she murmured in that same tone she used with her young grandchildren when they grew fussy in the night. The man's sobs quieted, but didn't cease as he looked up at her through teary, bloodshot brown eyes.
Finally seeing his face, her entire being hurt for him when she realized that he was young—probably in his late twenties or early thirties—and no one so young should ever have to experience the torment that was clearly visible in his exhausted features.
"I don't know whom you lost," she continued, "but I know it must be so very difficult. Can I do anything for you?"
He didn't respond immediately. Rather, he sucked in a low, shaky breath, his eyes moving past Jess and landing somewhere in the cemetery behind her. She guessed he was looking at the headstone he always came to visit.
"I haven't lost her yet," he confessed softly. "But I think I might soon, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do without her." He sniffled, his eyes darting back to her. "I have no idea who you are," he continued, "but I'm desperate, so I'll ask: Does it get easier?"
She frowned, reaching out a hand and squeezing his shoulder in silent comfort. "I won't say it does," she admitted, thinking of how she still woke in tears after dreaming about her sweet daddy, who had been dead and buried for over twenty years, "but it does become doable."
"But I don't want to do it without her," he cried. "I don't think I can."
"I know it feels like that," she cooed. "You can, though, hon. We often don't realize just how supported we are until something like this happens; I'll bet you have a whole room of people ready to get you by, not matter how hard it is."
The man paused, looking down at the dog even as tears trickled down his cheek. The dog licked his face, and she had to bite back a sad sigh. This poor, poor man, who should have never had to experience something so devastating so early in life.
"Do you need someone to come with you today?" She asked after another silent moment slipped by. When he shot her a questioning look, she clarified: "I run by every morning, and I've seen you out there." She tilted her chin in the direction of the grave he always visited. "Would you like me to come with you today? I won't say anything; I can just be beside you. My name's Jessica."
"I'm Eli," he told her, swiping at his nose before pushing himself to stand. "And I think I would like some company today, Miss Jessica."
Oh, what a kind young man. Someone had clearly raised him well.
"Just 'Jessica' is fine, honey. Here, let's go on in, if you're ready. What's your dog's name?"
"Milo," Eli said, picking up the dog's leash from the sidewalk, where she hadn't even realized it had fallen. "He's her dog."
Then best not to engage too much on the topic. Still, she smiled kindly. "He's beautiful."
"Yeah," Eli agreed softly. "Just like his mom." Then, he shook his head, drew in a steadying breath, and opened the gate.
She followed along silently, just as promised, and stood beside him when he finally stopped in front of the headstone he always came to see. It looked to be relatively new, with no signs of weather damage or mold, and she couldn't help but peer curiously at the writing.
Timothy Grant Cox
The other information told her that the man had died at the age of thirty-two just over a year and a half previous, and had been a loving father, a devoted husband, and a dear friend.
Oh, how devastating. Jess could only imagine what pain that had caused the man's loved ones, including the fellow beside her.
The man, Eli, didn't speak. He simply gazed at the headstone with sad, tortured eyes, his fingers flexing and relaxing against the dog's leash. The dog, Milo, stayed quiet, sitting patiently next to Eli. It was only from her spot beside the dog that Jess noticed a patch of odd fur just above the dog's right shoulder. It looked as though the area of fur had been shaved, and was thus shorter than the rest of the dog's coat: the skin underneath was raised, as well, as though it had been sutured and was only just healing, and she wondered how the dog had gotten injured.
Though she certainly wasn't about to ask.
In fact, Jess didn't say anything. She simply stood to Eli's right, with one hand rubbing against his shoulder, and offered him silent support. When Eli was ready to leave, he passed her small, tear-stained smile, a quiet "thanks," and then slipped away, the dog close by his side.
Jess stayed behind a few minutes longer, and said to the grave, "I'm sorry for whatever took you from these people. I hope you know that you're loved." And then she continued on her jog, but her mind stayed with sweet Eli. She prayed for him, for his family, the family of Timothy, and the family of the 'her' that Eli so clearly loved.
She was away the following week, having to go out and visit her daughter to help with the grandkids when her son-in-law was called away for an emergent work issue, and when she returned and went for her Sunday run, she didn't pass the cemetery as quickly as she normally did.
How could she? For as soon as she crested the hill located just before the church, she noticed the absence of Eli and the dog, Milo.
Stopping by the gate, she checked her watch and the date.
Sure enough, it was a Sunday, and just past seven in the morning. Eli should have been there.
Her lips tugged into a frown. She finished her jog, but stopped by the cemetery again on the return trip.
There was still no sign of the man.
She worried—not that something had happened to him, but rather that the woman he loved had left him, and perhaps he was now at a different cemetery, just him and the woman's dog. Her heart cried for him, but she could do nothing other than pray and continue looking for him on her runs.
Two months later, though, there was still no sign of him, and she wasn't sure what to think. Grief had a way of twisting people, and making them do foolish things, even when they surely had a bright future otherwise.
She could only hope that Eli was no longer visiting because he was in a better place mentally, and not that he had taken drastic measures to cope with loss.
***
A/N:
I promise that I, myself, am not an inherently sad person. There's something about sad songs that just gets the creative juices flowing, though . . .
Later, gators,
A.R.