Under the Rain at the Graveside
A cold autumn rain lashed the muddy lane in the village of Oakvale. John Wilson, hunched beneath the weight of the downpour, trudged forward stubbornly. Mud clung to his boots and slithered underfoot, but he wouldn’t stop. Today, he had to be there. With his Margaret. At last, through the curtain of rain, the outline of the village churchyard appeared.
“There’s your willow,” John whispered, his heart tightening.
He knelt by the simple headstone, ignoring his soaked clothes. Rain ran down his face, mingling with tears. How long he stood like that, no one could say. But then, footsteps sounded behind him. John turned—and froze, disbelief gripping him.
That morning had been damp and gloomy. John stood at the bus stop in Sheffield, wrapped in an old overcoat. The bus was late, and his irritation grew. Nearby, a girl laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his scowl.
“Must you be so loud?” he snapped, unable to contain his frustration.
“Sorry,” she stammered, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An awkward silence followed. John felt a stab of shame for his rudeness. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Apologies. I’m not myself today.”
The girl smiled warmly. “It’s alright. This weather gets to everyone. Personally, I love autumn rain—it’s like breathing in the season itself!”
John had no reply and only nodded. He disliked small talk with strangers. That had always been Margaret’s role—his wife. She handled everything, from bills to family visits. John had taken it for granted, never questioning it while she was there.
He’d been comfortable in his quiet world, where Margaret smoothed every wrinkle. But without her, it felt hollow and cold.
Despite his silence, the girl continued, “You know, it’s almost lucky the bus is late. Gives people a chance to catch up. My friend hasn’t even arrived yet.”
John almost argued that it was poor comfort for those shivering in the rain—but then, he remembered. If he hadn’t caught that bus forty years ago, he’d never have met Margaret. Would her life have been happier without him?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile warmed him, her kindness softened the world.
“I never even noticed when she was hurting,” John thought, tears rising.
To distract himself, he asked, “Going to Oakvale? Not much for young folk there.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “My great-aunt Mabel lives there. Visiting her. And you?”
“To my wife,” John said softly. “It’s her home.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Wilson. Margaret Elizabeth.”
The girl frowned slightly but shook her head. “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” John explained. “Just visited her parents now and then. Once they passed, she rarely went back.”
He fell quiet, lost in memories. Margaret had loved Oakvale. She’d begged him to visit together, but he’d always been too busy. Now he had time—but no family left. Their son, David, was wrapped up in his own life, never bringing the grandchildren.
“Oh, there’s my friend!” the girl exclaimed, waving. “Over here, Emma!”
She turned back to John, smiling. “Now the bus’ll come.”
Sure enough, it rounded the corner. The ride to Oakvale took two hours. John remembered when Margaret once missed the bus, and they’d wandered Sheffield till midnight. Those were the bright days.
Then came routine. They rarely argued—it was impossible to stay cross with her. Her patience and kindness knew no bounds. But John had changed. He’d taken her love for granted, never treasuring their moments together.
If he could tell his younger self one thing, it would be simple: “Hold onto her. Cherish every day.”
As the bus trundled into Oakvale, John’s pulse quickened. He recalled a line from a book: “Hell is the eternal never.”
Rain hammered the bus windows. John rose stiffly. “This is my stop.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend followed, sheltering under the bus stop’s roof. Seeing where he was heading, she called out, “Wait—that’s just the churchyard!”
John halted but didn’t answer. Silence said enough. The girl understood.
The day Margaret left him forever was etched in his mind. They’d quarreled over nothing. He’d sulked, skipped dinner, given her the cold shoulder. Margaret, ever patient, tried to smooth things over—but he stayed stubborn.
“Just popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping tears. “Need anything?”
“No,” he’d grunted.
She’d left—and never returned. A car hit her on the pedestrian crossing. In an instant, John’s life shattered.
Now he trudged through the mire, numb to the cold. Rain stung his face, but he pressed on to the graveside. Kneeling by the headstone, he whispered, “There’s your willow, my love.”
Tears blended with the rain. He lost track of time—until footsteps crunched behind him. John turned. There stood the girl from the bus stop, drenched but smiling. She held an umbrella.
“Sorry to intrude,” she said gently, “but your wife wouldn’t want you catching cold. Come with us—wait out the rain, then return.”
John leaned on her arm, rising unsteadily.
“I’m sure she loved you deeply,” the girl added. “And she’d forgive you.”
“Is it that obvious?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replied. “Everyone who’s lost someone knows. But don’t make her sadder—take care of yourself. Come on, you’re soaked through.”
Her words echoed Margaret’s kindness. Slowly, uncertainly, John stepped forward—toward the warmth still tethering him to life.
Sometimes, even in the deepest sorrow, a stranger’s compassion reminds us we’re not alone.