I always wondered what the odd old man did every evening with a broom in hand. He always stood at the door of a crypt, sweeping. I paid him no mind for a while. My mind was occupied with visiting my beloved.
Her grave stone rested, tucked in a corner of the cemetery under a large oak tree. It grew easier over time but each visit was a reminder of her absence.
And yet, every time I came, there was this man and his broom while above towered the angel statue of the crypt. I wondered what there was for this man to do every evening like this. Surely there shouldn’t always be something for this man to attend to every night. It was the great outdoors after all. What use was sweeping stone and dirt?
I decided, on a whim I suppose - after all this time it didn’t seem right that we hadn’t exchanged any words at all—to greet this fellow and ask what it was he was doing.
He only said the angel must be kept happy and returned to his sweeping without another word.
The next ni