I have become a frequent visitor to a specific cemetery in recent years.

It began after Jane’s mother died. We would go out to breakfast on a Saturday morning and then, before going on with the shopping and the other errands of the day, one or the other of us would suggest going up the hill to where her mother is buried. If the weather were bad, we would not go–or if we did, we would not stay long. Sometimes, we would take flowers from the garden or a wreath or a garland with us on those special days in the calendar. And sometimes we took them for no better reason than the flowers were in bloom and we wanted to share them.

We did not pray there. Rather, we talked with each other. Her mother, Jane said, always enjoyed a good conversation and listening was one of her pleasures. Our trips there became less and less frequent as Jane weakened in the fall before her death. The Saturday before she went into the hospital, I visited there alone and–for the first time–wept there.

Then I put on my strong face and went home.

Right after Jane died, I tried to get there every day. Work and the cemetery hours did not always allow that–and the snow last winter seemed endless. But I trudged through every snowfall until I had recreated the path I first dug out.

I do not go there every day now. But Saturday has remained a sacred trip. Sometimes I go in the morning, as I did today. Sometimes I go in the afternoon. I take some flowers or, if I know the flowers will have held up, some water for them. I cannot abide the sight of her grave with nothing on it.

I prefer living plants to cut flowers except when the cuttings come from our gardens. This morning I took some daffodils and a couple of sprigs of forsythia. We liked to see the forsythia in bloom–and the daffodils–because they announced spring was here in ways the crocus could only promise.

The problem with leaving living plants is that people steal them. Last year I left a pair of Easter lilies, one for her and one for her mother, and they were gone before they bloomed. This year, a pot of daffodils and another of English daisies have vanished. When I arrived this morning, I more than half expected the hyacinths would have followed suit. But they were still there–just at the edge of blooming. Their scent filled the air as I worked.

I hope the vanished flowers have found a good home. I would have liked them for the beds here after they had flowered–but clearly someone had other plans for them. I like to think they grace some poor spirit’s house and that they have taken with them some blessing that will ease that person’s day in a way the theft has not eased mine.

We humans do not always think about the consequences of our actions for others. The world would be better if we did.