That’s my cousin Narelle on her wedding day—graceful, serene, and effortlessly elegant. Everything about her was understated—except for one startling detail: she insisted the ceremony be held inside a cemetery. Not nearby. Not overlooking one. Right in the heart of it. And when people questioned her choice, she didn’t so much as flinch.
At first, we assumed there must be a deeper meaning—maybe a poetic gesture about life and death, or perhaps her fiancé had someone buried there. But he was from a completely different state, and his family had no ties to that cemetery at all.
Eventually, I asked her—half-laughing, camera slung over my shoulder—what the story was. Her answer was quiet but firm: “I made a promise. I had to keep it.”
I figured she meant something between her and her new husband. But she just smiled faintly and said, “Not with him. With someone who’s been waiting.”
Later that evening, after the reception had wound down and most of the family had moved on to the hotel bar, Narelle stayed behind. Still in her wedding dress, she walked to a quiet corner of the cemetery, stopping beneath a lone tree near the north edge. From a distance, I watched her kneel and gently place her bouquet on a grave. She was alone.
My curiosity got the better of me. I walked over quietly. She didn’t hear me.
The headstone read: Dale Markham. 1983 – 1999.
When she finally noticed me, she gave a small smile—not a joyful one, but the kind you give when you’ve carried something for years and finally let it go.
“I was fifteen when he died,” she said quietly. “And I promised I’d come back.”
I sat down beside her in the grass. “Who was he?”
She didn’t look at me. “Everything.”
That was the first time she ever spoke his name. In a family like ours—where secrets usually travel faster than gossip—no one had ever heard of Dale before.
The next morning, over hotel coffee and the kind of stiff pastries you only find at buffet breakfasts, Narelle finally told me the whole story.
Back in 1999, she was a shy teen with braces, tangled thoughts, and opinions she rarely voiced. That summer, she’d gone to stay with our grandparents at their cottage near Larnwick, a sleepy town barely big enough to fill a pew on Sundays.
One day, wandering through the woods behind the cottage, she stumbled across a boy sitting by a creek. Worn jeans, a flannel shirt, barefoot. His name was Dale, and he said he lived nearby. They started talking. He made her laugh like it was the most natural thing in the world. She said it felt like he saw right through to who she was.
The next day, she found him again. And again. It became their secret. Every afternoon, he’d be there—waiting by the creek, with a thermos of sweet tea and a pocketknife he used to carve tiny animals from fallen branches.
That summer felt like something out of a dream. The kind of first love that never really leaves you. She shared her sketchbook. He taught her how to skip stones. They kissed once, clumsy and sweet, while fireflies blinked around them…