The child remained tense, ready to flee at the first sign of danger, but something in Harold’s tone seemed to reassure her enough that she didn’t immediately run away.
“Is it you who’s been taking the flowers from that grave over there?” Harold asked, nodding toward Margaret’s headstone. “The red roses?”
The girl’s face crumpled with shame and fear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to steal. I just… my little brother is here, and Mama can’t buy flowers. She works two jobs and she’s always tired and there’s never money for things like that.”
She gestured toward the small headstone with Michael’s name. “But I don’t want him to be alone. I don’t want him to think we forgot about him. So when I saw the beautiful flowers on the lady’s grave, I thought… I thought maybe she wouldn’t mind sharing. My teacher says sharing is good.”
Harold felt his throat constrict with emotion. The little girl was stealing flowers not out of selfishness, but out of love for a deceased sibling. She was trying to honor Michael’s memory with the only resources available to her, redistributing flowers from what she perceived as an abundantly decorated grave to one that received no attention at all.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Harold asked, sitting down on the ground so he would be at her eye level.
“Elena,” she replied, her voice still cautious but slightly less fearful.
“Elena, can you tell me about Michael? Was he your little brother?”
Elena nodded, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “He got sick last spring. The doctors tried to help him, but he was too sick. Mama cried for a long time after he went to heaven.”
She looked down at the wilted roses in her small hands. “I come here after school sometimes, when Mama is working. I talk to him like he’s still here. But all the other graves have pretty flowers, and Michael’s grave is always empty. It makes me sad.”
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