The pathway led Helen further into the cemetery, where the corpses lay under the earth in rot, their silent souls intertwined with one another like an ethereal web floating on the surface of a distant ocean. Helen felt this spiritual entanglement tingle its way along her scalp and down her spine. It was a feeling she had never understood, but nonetheless accepted, knowing her son was in there, somewhere.

Was this what she’d always wanted, to visit her little son in a distant cemetery? His eternal bed, holding his lifeless body in peace, was now the immortal womb of the afterlife. It was a sullen thought, indeed. Still, Helen went on with life without the presence of her only child, knowing that one day—maybe tomorrow—she would see his sweet face again.

In Helen's hands were half a dozen dandelions, green and bright yellow, just as they’d been when she’d trimmed them from her flower garden. They felt full and lush in her grip, and their smell was thick, as if she were lost in a forest of pines and giant redwoods. Her hands were small and pink, but her face was gaunt with unending sadness: not that of a nineteen-year-old girl who worked all day in a beauty salon, but of a middle-aged woman who had died many times over. Only her hair revealed her youth, tight blond curls washing down her cheeks like golden tears. It was neatly wrapped around her head, scrupulously arranged. As she ran her tongue along her lips, the dry, bitter taste of hairspray lingered in her mouth.

The early April morning revealed a blue sky that washed over the ground, giving everything a new color. The blue heaven above was a graveyard in the sky; just like the sky, the cemetery seemed to go on forever, filled with death, decay and spoiled remains. Tombstones stood erect, guarding each body with firm efficiency. They seemed to watch Helen, following her as she continued along.

The brick pathway was rusty red, the solid rectangles looking as if they’d been poured into place rather than laid in their little, neat cavities. Helen glanced further ahead. The pathway ran up and over a low hill, disappearing from view, but she knew it was the final stretch that led to her son.

When she arrived at her son's marble headstone, she read his name out loud. It was music to her ears; it brought livid pain from deep inside her head and heart. The pain, the misery and anguish, controlled her whenever she came to this place and remembered the tragic life of her loving boy. She knelt beside the headstone and gently laid the dandelions down. A smile of adoration appeared on her face, but her eyes were emotionless.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing her fingers against her lips and then laying them on her son's name: Patrick Dean Timmerson.

Keeping her eyes focused on the grave, Helen stood back up and remembered the little time she’d had with Patrick. He’d been outgoing and rambunctious for a three-year-old boy. He had reminded her of her own father, who’d always had a smile on his face and something good to say about everything.

After wiping her eyes and stifling the tears, Helen gazed around the cemetery, soaking up its emptiness. The view was unchanged, deserted and dismal, and she felt that coldness creeping down her spine again. She shivered, despite the day's warming temperature.

She crossed her arms as if to cradle herself, and was starting down the pathway back to her car, when her eyes froze upon a new visitor.

The man was close, maybe twenty yards away. He looked down at the grave in front of him then peered over at Helen. He gave her a weary look, one that only an old man could give, and then returned his attention to the grave. His hair was thin and gray, and liver spots marked his forehead. His button-down shirt and gray slacks fit loosely on his body, as if he were a living scarecrow in a field full of dead corn.

Helen’s curiosity tugged her closer and closer to the old man. He appeared much too old to be alive, somehow. “Um, excuse me,” she said in a small voice. “I know this may seem strange, but—”

The old man turned and looked up at her, his bright blue eyes piercing into hers like daggers. Helen took a step back, her mouth to open to speak, but she hesitated. Strangely, the old man's hair seemed longer than she’d first thought.

Helen glanced down at her feet then said, “I wanted to ask you, who is that you're visiting?”

The old man’s smile lit up his face, and Helen relaxed a little.

“My mother,” he said. “I'm visiting her before heading up to Connecticut to be with family.” His voice sounded like creaking trees.

“Ah, that must be wonderful, visiting family. I'm not very close to mine. I plan on spending Easter alone again this year.”

“That must be hard.”

“Very,” Helen replied.

“Would you mind my asking who that is you're visiting?”

Helen blinked and looked at him. “Oh! My son; he died three years ago.”

“What happened?”

Helen let out a heavy sigh. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, she lit one and took a deep drag. She flicked the ashes and said, “He was beaten to death by his father. He and I were only kids when we had him, you know—still in high school. It was a mistake.” She took another drag.

The old man eyed the cigarette and frowned. “Maybe we should take a walk.”

Helen looked at him, then at the cigarette. “Eh, sorry about that. I didn't even realize…”

“No, no need to apologize,” he said and grinned.

Helen smiled back and they took a short walk around the cemetery, talking about family, the past, the future, and the very cold present that felt a million miles away, as if time had stood still and they were the only two people moving in the world.

Nevertheless, it was all too real to Helen: the seemingly endless graves, the brick path under her sandals, the dry sky overhead, the old man beside her who looked as if he was a thousand years old, and yet was somehow growing younger. The only thing that felt out of place was Helen, herself. She didn't know why, but it was as if her very presence was wrong—immoral, even, or somehow corrupt.

Helen flicked ash from her freshly lit cigarette, following it through the air until it landed on top of a headstone. Right then, she felt guilty for smoking and for her child's death, but it was just ash, wasn't it? They were just dead people.

She looked back at the old man and it struck her that he was indeed looking younger. His hip-pinching limp was gone, and the wrinkles on his face were not as deep. When he peered at Helen, she saw that his eyes weren't as fierce; as if he’d found some sort of inner peace and yet didn't want to lose the sorrow he’d kept inside for so long.

“I never knew my mother,” the old man said faintly. “She died just days after I was born.”

“Oh?” Helen finished her cigarette and stamped on the butt.

“I only got to know her from pictures. You know, how children think of how their parents were. Faultless, and saintly.” The old man grinned.

“Yeah, and I suppose that's how parents see their children. Like angels.”

“Exactly,” he said, taking her hand as they returned to the place where they’d met.

“Gosh, look at the time!” Helen said, checking her watch. “I'd better get going.”

“Where to?” The old man’s voice had deepened.

“I have a million things to do—errands to run, and all of that stuff.”

The old man nodded. “It's a shame you have to go so soon,” he said grimly.

“Why's that?” Helen asked as she dug in her purse for her keys.

“Because this will be the last time we meet.”

Helen slowly looked up at the old man and saw that he was no longer old.

It was as if thirty years had just washed away. A man in his forties now stood before her, smiling down at her. His hair was brown and thicker, his skin, tighter. Helen opened her mouth without saying a word and let go of her keys. The sound clanged in her ears and echoed in her head as they dropped onto the brick pathway. She let out a faint moan and backed up.

“Don't be afraid. Look around you,” he whispered gently.

Helen craned her head to the left and saw something move behind the trees, floating. Then she turned to the right and what she saw nearly made her faint: there, just a few feet away, was a man floating above a headstone. His features were colorless, his hair flowing in an unfelt wind. His eyes were closed and his hands were outstretched as if he were meditating or praying. Fearfully, she now saw that people—were they people?—were floating above every headstone.

“They're spirits,” said the man, who was no longer old. “Spirits of the dead.”

“Wha—”

“They've always been here,” he interrupted. “Watching you. Watching us. But now, it's time for you to go.”

“What do you mean?” Helen whispered, frantic.

“You'll no longer be alone; oh, so alone…”

Helen backed away from him, realizing that he had lost another twenty years of his age. “Who are you?” she screamed. “Who are you?”

Then she heard a voice, a child's voice. It took her a moment to recognize it. The man before her was now a child.

He was her son, Patrick.

Helen fell to her knees, crying out. The child stood there watching her with big, innocent eyes, dressed in clothes much too big for him. His hair was golden brown, now; his skin, finely pink; his body, small and fragile. Managing to get back on her feet, Helen rushed to him. She held him in her arms…

Yes, he was real. He was real.

“I'm your son,” he whispered to her.

“He's your son,” the souls around them chanted.

Helen looked up at them. Their heads were turned toward her, watching her with fierce, ghostly eyes that had no color and no emotion. They seemed to be without pain. Empty. Lifeless.

“Death,” Helen said under her breath.

“You'll no longer be alone, Mom,” said the boy.

Helen looked down at him lovingly, and then looked at the grave the old man had been visiting. She read the headstone.

Helen Elizabeth Timmerson, beloved mother.

She stared at it blankly as the color ran from her face, her eyes expressionless. She found herself floating above the headstone. Her sandals were gone; instead, she was wearing black high heels that somehow felt alive, not just on her feet but on her entire body, as if everything belonged to her and was a part of her.

“I miss you, Mom,” said the boy, looking up at her.

Helen smiled down at her son and closed her eyes, falling into a deep, black sleep that invaded her mind and body. She was slipping further and further away, but she didn't mind. It felt wonderful. Her arms floated in the air, just like the others.

The boy looked down at the grave and cried.

When Patrick finally stood back up, he was old again. He breathed a tired, shallow breath, ran his crooked fingers through his thin white hair and wiped a single tear from his cheek. He eyed the cemetery with his empty, blue eyes.

The spirits were gone, and so was Helen.

A bird whistled on a branch overhead then flew off into the deserted sky. The old man shuffled down the pathway, passing the graves of unknown strangers. Suddenly, he stopped and turned toward a vacant plot.

Lying on the lush grass was a bouquet of dandelions. They seemed to stare back at him, and he felt a cold shiver creep down his spine.

The old man continued down pathway, thinking about his mother. He remembered her, now. She was no longer just a picture in an album, but a person: a real, living, breathing person, who he had gotten to know for at least a little while.