In the Rain at the Grave
The cold autumn rain lashed against the muddy lane in the village of Oakendale. John Whitaker, hunched beneath the heavy drops, trudged stubbornly onward. The mud clung to his boots, slippery underfoot, but he did not pause. Today, he had to be there. With his Laura. At last, through the veil of rain, the outline of the village churchyard emerged.
“There’s her oak,” John murmured, feeling his heart tighten.
He approached the modest gravestone, sinking to his knees, heedless of his soaked clothes. The rain streamed down his face, mingling with his tears. How long he knelt there, no one could say. But then, footsteps sounded behind him. John turned and froze, unable to believe his eyes.
That morning had been damp and dreary. John Whitaker stood at the bus stop in town, wrapped in his threadbare coat. The bus was late, and his irritation festered. Nearby, a girl laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his dark glare.
“Must you be so loud?” he snapped, unable to suppress his annoyance.
“Sorry,” she replied, flustered, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call you back, all right?”
An awkward silence lingered. Shame prickled at John for his sharpness. He coughed and muttered,
“Apologies. I’m not myself today.”
The girl smiled warmly.
“No harm done. The weather gets to everyone. I rather like the autumn rain, myself—that crisp smell, like the season itself breathing!”
John had no reply, only nodding. He’d never been one for small talk with strangers. That had always been Laura’s domain, his wife. She handled everything—bills, family gatherings, the hum of daily life. He’d taken it for granted, never questioning, so long as she was there.
He’d been content in his quiet world, where Laura shouldered the burdens. Now, without her, it felt hollow.
The girl, undeterred by his silence, went on,
“You know, it’s almost a blessing the bus is late. Gives stragglers a chance. My friend, for instance—she’s not even here yet.”
John nearly scoffed—what comfort was that for those left waiting in the cold? But then he remembered Laura. If, forty years ago, he hadn’t made that bus, they’d never have met. Would her life have been happier without him?
Laura had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile could warm a room, her kindness soften the hardest edges of the world.
“I never even knew when she was hurting,” John thought, his throat tightening.
To distract himself, he spoke again.
“You headed to Oakendale? Quiet place—hardly any youngsters there now.”
She nodded. “Yes, my great-aunt lives there. I’m visiting her. And you?”
“To my wife,” John said softly. “Her home village.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Whitaker. Laura Elizabeth.”
The girl frowned slightly, then shook her head.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” John explained. “Only came back to visit her parents. After they passed, she rarely returned.”
He fell silent, lost in memories. Laura had loved Oakendale. She’d begged him to visit with the family, but he’d always been too busy. Now he had time—but no family left. Their son, Thomas, was wrapped up in his own life, never bringing the grandchildren round.
“There’s my friend!” the girl exclaimed, waving. “Over here, Emily!”
She turned back to John with a smile.
“And look—here comes the bus.”
Sure enough, the bus rumbled into view. The journey to Oakendale took two hours. John remembered how, in their youth, Laura had once missed the bus, and they’d wandered the city streets till nightfall. Those had been happy times.
Then came the routine. They seldom argued—it was impossible to stay cross with Laura. Her patience and gentleness were boundless. But John had changed. He’d taken her love for granted, never treasuring the moments they shared.
If he could send one message to his younger self, it would be simple: *Cherish her. Every day.*
As the bus rolled into the village, John’s pulse quickened. A line from an old book surfaced in his mind: *Hell is an eternal never.*
The rain hadn’t let up in Oakendale, drumming against the bus windows. John heaved himself up.
“My stop.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend followed, sheltering under the bus stop’s awning. Seeing where John was headed, she called out,
“Wait—there’s only the churchyard that way!”
John paused, glancing back but saying nothing. His silence spoke volumes. The girl understood.
The day Laura left him forever was seared into John’s memory. They’d quarrelled over nothing. He’d sulked, refused supper, clammed up as usual. Laura, ever the peacemaker, had tried to mend things, but he’d been immovable.
“Just popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d grunted.
Laura had walked out—and never returned. A car had struck her at the crossing. In an instant, John’s world collapsed.
Now he slogged through the mud, numb to the cold. The rain stung his face, but he pressed on toward the churchyard. Reaching Laura’s grave, he sank to his knees before the stone.
“There’s your oak, my love,” he whispered, choking on grief.
Tears and rain blurred together. He lost all sense of time. Then—footsteps. John turned and stilled. The girl from the bus stop stood there, soaked but smiling gently. An umbrella was clasped in her hand.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she said softly. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching your death. Come with us—wait out the rain, then come back.”
John leaned on her arm as he rose unsteadily. She pressed on, as if fearing his silence.
“I’m sure she loved you dearly. And she was happy with you. She’d forgive you, you know.”
“Is it that obvious I blame myself?” John rasped.
“Guilt walks hand in hand with loss,” she answered. “Anyone who’s loved and lost knows that. But don’t make her grieve you further. Look after yourself. Come—you’re drenched.”
As John listened, he heard echoes of Laura in her voice—the same kindness, the same care. Slowly, uncertainly, he took a step forward, toward the warmth and light still tethering him to this world.