A Pocket Archive (49)

I never liked the cemetery in my home town.

I had been raised with the knowledge of Life after death in the Resurrection, but it was difficult to believe it whenever I was standing there, surrounded by the rows of dark stone epitaphs. Though neatly trimmed, the grass was dry and sounded scratchy whenever the wind rustled it, and I shuddered when I thought about how it would feel underneath bare feet. The whole cemetery sported only a few intermittent patches of green among the the parched brown turf that separated the tombstones, primarily only over the newer graves. Every here and there, sprinkler heads peeked up from random locations, but there was no tell-tale circle of green around any of them, just a white crust around the tops where hard water had built up and stayed. I remember wondering whether any of them worked.

I think I must have been about three or four the first time that I remember being there. It was for a Memorial Day service, and I remember being stuffed into a puffy jacket that was almost too small for me due to the chilly late-spring weather, holding my father's hand (or more precisely his thumb, since his hands were so big) and huddling close to his leg while digging my other hand into my pocket to keep it warmer. The wind was very cold that day, battering all the little plastic red, white, and blue flags in the cemetery, and I remembered it stinging against my cheeks, making my nose run. At some point, I wiped it on my sleeve, looking off to the side as I did so.

One of the gravestones near us had a framed, faded photograph of an older woman peering out from cloudy glass. She wasn't as pretty as my grandma, but she was smiling and looked happy, which made me like her. Below her name (I was too young to read it), there was a stone vase containing a bundle of sunbleached silk flowers, which may have been fushia once, but which had since faded and become tattered from the incessant wind. The flowers had anchored to the vase with a thin, blue plastic cable, which I only knew because they were halfway hanging out of it. No one had come to ever come to replace them. It made me sad for the woman behind the glass, and I wondered if she had been forgotten too.

One thing was clear to me, however: there were no living things in this cemetery. I also knew from the dry grass under my feet and from watching my mother in her garden that living things don't generally come out of the ground in Wyoming— not without substantial help, at least. But here, it seemed everyone had forgotten, allowing the memory of the occupants to be buried with them, leaving them to decay like everything else.

I had never feared the idea of death itself- after all, it's not the end of existence. But I did fear being left in that horrible, ugly cemetery, surrounded by articial flowers and the neglected stones of forgotten people who I didn't know. And I certainly didn't like the idea of people I love going there either.

Perhaps that was why I once again found myself in a phantasm sleep, dreaming that I was standing between the members of my little family, all three of us staring down into the yawning mouth of an open grave. One of my hands was engulfed by a bigger, stronger one, while the other was wrapped tightly around one that was mitten-clad and much smaller. Somewhere in the background, I could hear a few sniffles and the droning sound of a prayer, the words addled by the strange air of dreams. I don't know where my mother was, but it sounded like it might be her crying. Across from us, my sibling, solemn and wordless, began shoveling dirt onto the casket below, which somehow turned into ash the second it landed on the lid, twining with the wind. It stung my eyes, and for a moment, I thought I could smell Marlboro cigarettes mixed with garage fumes and woodsmoke- the way my dad always smelled when he got home from work.

Beside me, the Angel squeezed my hand and looked up at me, her hair a shock of autumn color against her unusually somber attire, and her big, beautiful sage eyes shiny and frightened. She didn't understand what was happening.

I didn't either. Somehow though, I intrinsically knew that that particular casket was locked from the inside.

I squeezed her hand back, and her lips moved silently and she stared up at me, mouthing a question that I couldn't answer.

'I don't know baby, I don't know.'

Willing myself to awaken, I blinked a few times, staring at the ceiling and watching the fan blades spin in the darkness above us. Next to me, the giant snored softly, having somehow tangled almost all of the blankets around himself like a tight cocoon. I gave them a gentle tug, then, seeing how they weren't going budge, reached instead down to the pile of blankets that I kept on the floor by my side of the bed for this exact reason. I lay there for a while longer, counting my breaths and trying to empty my mind, but sleep eluded me. Eventually, I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders and rolled off the bed carefully, trying not to wake the giant, then crept into the living room.

I flicked on a lamp and glanced at the coffee table, which hosted our steamdeck and a small pile of books, one of which 'The Theology of the Cross', had been a gift when we'd recently stopped by the little church I'd attended in college. It has been a bit of a surprise for both of us- the pastor looked much like I'd remembered him: hair sticking straight up, face obscured under a blonde, bushy beard, with only his eyes and nose visible. It kind of reminded me of how my hedgehog looked whenever she curled up into a ball. Only now he looked so tired, and had grey striped along his temples. He didn't recognize me at first- glancing between me, then the giant, then his sad blue eyes suddenly lit up and he smiled, somewhere between joy and uncertainty.

I wondered what he'd been told, or if anyone had said anything at all. He'd asked how I was, where I lived now, and if I had found a church. While the giant excused himself for the restroom, I filled the pastor in on what happened in my life over the last few years. The look he gave me was similar to everyone I had told: sympathy, sadness, anger, and maybe pity- but never surprise, at least not to the point of disbelief. He told me he was terribly sorry, then recollected some observations and behaviors he'd noted a decade prior, much like most of the people we'd known. At the time, however, he was the only one who'd ever said anything. I have him a genuine smile and told him God and the giant were both taking care of me, and that things were much better now. Then, to lighten the mood, I told him I was going to say something to him that I would rarely admit to anyone who'd given me advice I didn’t like: I should have listened to him.

It had made him laugh at least. He told me a little about what was going on in his family, and beamed at me when I introduced the giant. He shook both our hands before we left, then pressed a book into mine before we turned towards the door. He said it had helped him a lot, and I had promised I'd read it and let him know what I think.

I picked it up of the stack and flipped through it. I would keep my promise, of course, but it hardly seemed like a good treatment for insomnia and wasn't what I wanted at the moment. I also found less comfort in theology and Christian books than I did in genres like fantasy or the classics, I think because I benefited more in taking breaks from reality more than I did from deep-diving further into it.

I set the book aside, opting instead for 'Reaper Man', my last stopping place marked by a crumpled five dollar bill. I didn't remember falling back asleep, but the next thing I knew, the giant was standing at the edge of the sofa, poking the sole of my foot. He smiled and gave it a playful tickle when my eyes opened, so I smiled back and gave his hand a soft kick in response.

"You sick?"

"Nah. Just weird dreams, couldn't sleep." I moved my knees closer to my body so he could sit on the edge of the couch where my feet had been.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I picked the book off my chest and set it back on the coffee table. "I'm fine, I think I'm just overthinking...adjacent problems." I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, trying to figure out how to word my next statement. I knew I didn't have to, though- our family was plenty stubborn on both sides. He gave me a look of understanding, then pushed me closer to the edge of the couch, squeezing himself between me and the cushions, then hugged me tightly against his chest.

"There's nothing you can do."

"I know."

That was exactly what bothered me. Or, more specifically, that the one person who could, wouldn't.

*****