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Mysterious Ways: A Strange Visitor at the Cemetery

Are they supposed to be in cemeteries?

Credit: weerachonoat

My husband Randy knelt at his grandmother’s grave and set down a vase of flowers, carefully arranging the stems so each blossom faced the sun. He was still as broken up as he had six months ago, when he’d held his grandmother’s hand just before she passed away. They’d always been close. He lit up whenever he recalled the days he spent with her as a child, helping feed the chickens she raised, and her prized Rhode Island Red Rooster. I wished I could comfort him, but I wasn’t sure how.

That night a massive summer storm swept through town. We were staying with Randy’s mother, and the winds were so fierce they made the old house creak. The next day, Randy seemed distracted. “You know, I bet those flowers were knocked down last night,” he said, out of the blue. “We should go set them up again.” I could tell he was upset. We hopped in our truck and headed back to the cemetery.


Sure enough, the flowers were scattered everywhere. Randy got down on his knees to gather them. I looked past him. Something moving among the tombstones had caught my eye.

“What is that?”

Randy looked up. From behind a tombstone, it emerged… a rooster? It bobbed toward us and clucked.

The rooster was only a few feet away now. He jumped right on top of the tombstone belonging to Randy’s grandmother, and stared at Randy. We both were shocked into silence. The sober expression on Randy’s face slowly turned into a smile.

When it came time to leave, the rooster hopped off the tombstone and watched us get into our truck. We started up the engine, and the bird crowed loudly, three times.

“Where do you think that rooster came from?” I asked.

 “Not just any rooster,” Randy said. “That’s a Rhode Island Red. Grandma’s favorite.”


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