In the rural Texas countryside, fifty or so miles north of Houston, there’s an old cemetery that dates back to the 1870’s. It’s a peaceful resting place, one that’s served my family for more than a hundred years. 

     A white one-room wooden church, built just a few years after the Civil War, sits next to the cemetery. It’s been kept in good repair over the years, and local residents still use it as a church and meeting place. Small additions like a couple of window air conditioners help make the church more comfortable during the hot Texas summers, and modern plumbing has replaced the out-house that once stood just outside. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same as it was a hundred years ago, or at least that’s what locals say. 

    My sister and I recently visited there together to put fresh flowers on our parent’s graves. They are buried side by side, Dad having passed in 1970, and Mom joining him in the summer of 2004. A few clouds hovered in the bright blue sky that day, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the old oak trees that dot the countryside. A thunderstorm that passed through the day before left the grounds moist, but the bright Texas sun rapidly took care of that. 

    We placed silk flowers in the vase that sat at the top connected to our parent’s marker, and we stood in silence for a few moments in our own private thoughts. I thought about our mother who had passed in her late 90’s, still strong and resilient, a single woman for many years figuring out end of life on her own. Then there was our father, injured and tired after a lifetime of hard work. He passed too young, but he didn’t feel useful to the world the same way he always had. That does something to a man. 

    When we were done paying our respects, we walked around and looked at some of the old, and new markers in the cemetery. Our family names on about a quarter of them, and three other family names occupy most of the rest. Our grandmother and grandfather, our dad’s parent’s, lie just a few feet from our mother and father. I could remember Grandpa Thomas and Grandma Lucy from my childhood, but I realized that those memories so long ago were fading.That made me a little sad. 

    Near their graves was a small, very old marker. I noticed it because it was broken in two. The lower half was still erect, but the top half lay on the ground just behind it, some loose dirt and leaves gathered on top from the recent storm. I picked up the top half and put it back in place, and together they made a marker that stood about eighteen inches tall, 12 inches wide, and about 2 inches thick. 

    I could barely read the inscription because the years and the weather had taken their toll. I dusted away the dirt from the face of the headstone and with some difficulty read, “Little Mary Ellen.” It named our grandparents as her parents. Who was this little girl, I wondered to myself? Just then, I felt my sisters gave over my shoulder. 

    “Mary Ellen must be our Dad’s sister,” my sister said. “But I don’t remember hearing of an aunt by that name before.”

    The stone was too worn and battered to make out her birth and death dates, but the years were still readable. She was born in 1892 and died in 1896, just four years old. It was a little stone for a little girl. 

    “It’s not likely that we would have heard much about her,” I said. “She died several years before Dad was born.”

    My sister thought for a moment. Eventually she said, “I remember mom saying that Grandma Lucy talked about a daughter that died as a child… Maybe she was just too perfect for this world.”

    We drove back to Houston after that, but I couldn’t get Little Mary Ellen out of my mind. Her death wasn’t unusual for the time. Rural Texas in the late 1800’s saw lots of childhood deaths. That old cemetery held more of those little markers, some with my family name on them. But none had stuck a chord like Little Mary Ellen.

    I thought about getting a new marker for her, one that would clearly identify her for many years to come. Somehow, thought, that didn’t seem right. Grandpa Thomas and Grandma Lucy had put that little marker in place. It saw their tears as they said goodbye to their child. The old marker had to stay, because it was a part of her legacy on this land. 

    But I could repair it. And I was going to. 

    The next morning, I went to a local hardware store and got some glue that would work with old stones. I drove back to the little cemetery, alone this time on the almost 50 mile journey. I make no claims to being a very good handyman, particularly one versed in stonemasonry, so my repair would be crude, but it would have to do. 

    When I arrived back at the graveyard, I approached Mary Ellen’s marker and said hello. I simply brushed dirt and loose pieces of the broken edges of the stone, spread a generous amount of glue on them, and set the top part back on the base piece that was still rooted solidly into the ground. Excess white flue seeped out and I wiped away as much as I could. A white line marked where I had glued the pieces back together, but at least it was all in once piece again. 

    I picked up my things, put everything back in the hardware store bag and turned to go. Just then, I heard a voice. 

    “Thank you, sir,” a little girl said, faint but clear. 

    I stopped and looked around. I was alone in the cemetery. I smiled to myself. 

    “You’re welcome, Mary Ellen,” I said.

    I walked back to my car, feeling better than I had ever felt in my life. As I drove away, I was glad that a perfect little girl who left her parents far too early, still had a way to tell people who she was. And more importantly, even if it had been in my imagination, Little Mary Ellen seemed to approve.