Color Can Raise the Dead

Stories written in stone.

Today was perfect. Warm sun, cool breeze, sweet scents—yellow everywhere.

I stopped by the local shop for a bouquet of purple flowers before driving the few miles to the old cemetery. I visit there often—drawn, somehow. I like that it still holds mystery and reverence—quietly untouched by a world that so often forgets the value of such things.

The gates invite you into a concrete garden, where headstones and wildflowers bloom side by side. This morning, per usual, I ambled down the brick walkways lined with live oaks and magnolia trees, studying dates and names carved so carefully into stone. Late 1800s to early 1900s; a few WWII era. Most with little detail, though a chosen few carry ornate designs—flowers, books, lambs. I wonder about their stories.

Some stories feel lavish or peaceful; others, unmistakably sad. And it’s for those that I bring the flowers. Never white roses or Easter lilies. I like a bouquet of vibrant florals—bright pinks, oranges, deep reds, or purples (like today’s).

Iris Apfel once said, “Color can raise the dead.” I’m not so sure about raise—and if it were true, I’d probably drop my bouquet and run! But perhaps a flower sparks curiosity in a passerby, followed by a memory of someone dear. Maybe vivid oranges ward off shadows. Maybe bright pinks awaken the spirit from a nightmare, coaxing it back to a sweeter, more gentle slumber.

Anyway, flowers belong in a garden.

My search for stories took me first to Julia and Tete. Stumbling into their story was a gift; even in death, it is full of life.

“Tete” Alton Bowers, 1906 - 1979

Julia Z Bowers, Wife, 1906 - 1979

This pair had no need for my flowers; Julia’s light remains bright. I left them with a smile.

I wandered for another twenty minutes or so, looking for the perfect shady bench to sit and eat the savory turnover I’d packed in my bag. But before the bench, I found William and Charles. Brothers. William passed in 1944 at the age of 37. Charles in 1939 at the age of 24. They lie beside their parents in the family plot. All too young. It was William who first caught my attention. His headstone lay alone several feet in front of the other members of the family—a leader. Was he a soldier? Was Charles? Were they close? I decided they were—and still are, in death.

I’ve never divided my bouquet, but today I did. I split the flowers evenly and laid each half on the two men’s graves.

Spotting a bench up the hill, I thought again of my turnover and the idea of sitting to write. I gathered my things and bid the lads farewell, whispering as I walked away, “You both look dashing in violet.”