SOC #39: Purple Blue

It was the day after the third anniversary of her death when I came to visit her tombstone, and I didn't find what I had expected. This was the third - and maybe - last time I had come to visit her resting place. When I came upon her tombstone the previous two times there were roses laid at the base of it, left there by her family the previous day, the day of her death. There were no roses this time. Maybe they didn't feel like coming on her death day anymore, I thought. Coming to visit her on the day of her birth seemed more appropriate to me. I wanted to come to the cemetery on her birthday, but then there'd be a chance I would meet any one of her family members, and I wanted to avoid such a thing, at any cost. So I chose to come the day after the anniversary of her death rather than the day of. I figured people didn't visit their loved ones the day after, because they'd most likely remember their days of mourning too much rather than remember the beautiful life the departed had. But then again, why visit the grave on the day of their death? People do such things; it simply is the way of human nature, I guess. I don't want to explain to anyone my nature and the reason why I visit -- not to her family, let alone to any of mine. It was my secret. I hadn't told anyone I visited her grave to pay my respects, and tape two hearts carved from paper -- one purple, the other blue -- to the top corners of her tombstone. I didn't say anything as I did so, and I wouldn't stay too long. Her and I hardly talked when she was alive, so I didn't speak to her when she was dead. It seemed to morbid to do so. On this day I did talk though, I had to. On this third -- I decided right then and there -- and last visit I taped the purple and blue hearts to the upper corners of the tombstone, then stood there before her, thinking about the reasons why I did this. I thought about the ways she looked when she was happy, her smile, when she was sad, when she cried, and the sound of her voice. I still remember everything, even if I wasn't apart of her life. I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears with all the effort I could muster, because I had no right to cry. I wasn't the love of her life, and honestly, I didn't know who was. Most likely it was a handsome man, a healthy man who made her happy until she died. I hoped she died in her deathbed with a smile. It was a good twenty minutes before I finally decided to leave. I turned and saw someone standing a few feet behind me. It was her father. I froze, panicking a little bit, and basically stopped breathing. I didn't know what to do, or what to say. I wanted to leave, move my feet, and go around him. Say I had the wrong tombstone, and look stupid. He said, "Hello. Who are you?" I took a deep breath, still unable to form words with my mouth. I took another deep breath. Shit, don't panic, I thought. Be as cool as you can be and simply leave. Her father asked, "You alright?" I managed a nod. He said, "Seem like you're about to faint." I finally said something: "I'm in the wrong place. Sorry. I thought--" He interrupted me, "You're lying, young man. You were standing in front of my daughter's tombstone for nearly half an hour. Now, there are only two reasons you'd be doing such a thing: you either were an obsessed stalker of hers; or you were an old flame none in our family knew about. So, which one is it?" I replied, "Neither." He said, "Then why, for the past three years, have you been putting hearts on her tombstone?" I said, "I didn't know anyone in your family knew." He said, "Last year her brother didn't make it here on the anniversary of her death, so he came the day after. He told me later that night the hearts taped to her tombstone were a nice touch. I told him I didn't leave any hearts, just the roses. And for a whole year the hearts were a mystery to us -- the person who left them anyways. Now today I find out it's you. Would you like some red wine?" He held up a paper bag I didn't even notice he was holding. I said, "Okay, sure. Just a little." He reached inside the paper bag, took out two plastic cups, and handed them to me. Then he took out the bottle of red wine, removing the already uncorked cork from the top of the bottle. Before pouring the wine into each cup I held in each hand, he said, "We're gonna finish the entire bottle." Then he proceeded to fill each cup to the brim. I said, "I don't know. I don't feel like getting buzzed at the moment." He asked, "Do you have to drive home?" I said, "No. I don't live too far. I walked." He said, "Then help me finish the damn bottle." I handed him one of the cups. For a second, I assumed he'd hold it up so we'd drink in honor of his daughter, but he put it right to his mouth and proceeded to drink all the wine in the cup. While he did so, he shifted his eyes towards me and saw I wasn't drinking yet, just staring at him, a bit astonished. He gestured with his other arm for me to drink. So I did, but I drank only half the wine in the cup. When he finished, he said, "If she were alive to see me drinking over her grave, she'd slap the shit out of me. Excuse my language. So, please do tell me why you leave these hearts." I remained silent. I didn't know what to say. Obviously I knew the reason, but I didn't know how I'd explain it. He asked, "Is it a long story?" I said, "No. It's a short one, I guess." He said, seeming to demand it, "Then tell it to me." I drank the rest of the wine in my cup, then told him. "I didn't know she died until almost six months after. My friend told me at a pool party he was having at his place. The thing is I've known your daughter since kindergarten, we basically went to the same schools until we graduated high school. Over the years we talked, but hardly. We were more acquaintances than friends in actuality. The night before I found out she was dead I had a dream which made me remember something that happened in the second grade. Something she did for me." For a moment I stopped speaking. I was going to cry, and because I hadn't told anyone this story for years -- and of all people to tell it to, her father -- I had no energy to stop the tears from flowing. My eyes began welling as I went on. "I came in from recess to find a piece of white paper on my table. On it, drawn with crayon, were three hearts. I didn't know who it was from. But of course children will be children, and someone hollered it was your daughter who drew those hearts for me. She sat right in front of me in second grade." Tears began rolling down my cheeks. Her father said, "So that is why you leave these paper hearts." I said, "Sort of. No, it's not the real reason. People question why they are alive. What's the meaning of life, blah, blah, blah. I don't ask such questions. They are simply unanswerable. But I have an unanswerable question which is what color were the hearts she drew on that piece of paper. I will never know now. Were the hearts purple, or were they blue? I wish she were alive to tell me." My eyes closed. I put my hand on my forehead. I was about to weep, but I felt her father's hand on my shoulder, and he asked, "Do you remember the color of the roses I leave here every year?" I opened my eyes, wiped away my tears, and looked at him. I said, "Yes." He informed, "Her favorite color is what the roses are of. The color of the hearts she drew for you." Her father then reached over, and removed the heart that wasn't the color of the roses. "Now you know."