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Graveyard Labours

Graveyard Labours

Nancy and Daisy knelt in the sunshine, pulling weeds.

It was early spring, six months or so after Nancy’s husband, Emmett, had quietly passed on.

Both old ducks wore bright, clean, broad-brimmed hats, their faces alternating from light to shadow as the few clouds there were glided across the blue.

Emmett’s grave needed tending to after a long spell of wet weather. The earth steamed and complained as it gave up its excess moisture, ever greedy to retain the damp.

The graveyard was quiet and the girls had the place to themselves.

Nancy paused and looked up, “What was that?”

Daisy pulled a weed clean out of the soft ground.

“What?”, she shouted unnecessarily.

Nancy pointed to the heavens to simmer Daisy down.

A moment in silence.

“Never mind”, she muttered.

“What’s that?”

Nature resumed her business, sending a fat, course-correcting, bee wobbling by.

Nancy smiled as she remembered a drunk Emmett berating a young bloke for not being Irish enough, before zig-zagging towards their car, his keys rattling in preparation.

She glanced around and her smile broadened. It was, all told, a lovely day, tempered by their labour. One of a string of lovely days recently.

They both played with the idea that Emmett was here with them too, plying the earth with his spectral hands, thinking of things to say.

Two faces brightened even more at the thought, energy flowing in flushed lines.

Their eyes met, their sub-consciousnesses nodded lightly to each other’s.

“Hmmmp.”

“What?”, shouted Daisy again.

“Shhhhh”, stage whispered Nancy.

Chirps and knocks sounded….but….no.

“Hmmmmp.”

Nancy cocked her head to the left, like it would help, waiting for the sound to come again. And, such is the universe, it didn’t.

Nancy sighed.

Daisy looked at the dirt again and resumed weeding, but more deeply this time. Digging then?

“What are you doing, Sweetheart?”, asked Nancy.

“Can’t you hear him?”

“What?”

“Emmett.”

“Emmett?”, Nancy asked with growing exasperation.

 “Yes, I heard him make his noise. You know. That noise he used to make?”

“He used to make a lot of noises, my Love. Most meant nothing.”

“Hmmm.”

Nancy looked defeated and thought about whether a second cup of coffee would affect her afternoon nanna-nap.

Daisy, satisfied that Nancy’s fancies had been put to rest six-foot under, reviewed the ground before her, noting how much still needed to be done.

The tense silence between them expanded into space until it was broken, quite rudely.

“Hmmmmmp.” This occasion could be heard quite clearly, followed by a low, resonant, but somehow urgent thump.

Daisy raised her head and looked directly into Nancy’s eyes. Nothing was said as they both independently decided that they had done enough work in the graveyard for the day.

They gathered their things and made for the car. At the last moment before reaching for the door handle with her keys, Nancy half-turned to her husband’s last resting place.

“Shut up, Emmett,” she whispered and turned back to the car. The blue sky reached over them perfectly and without comment.

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Lost Things

Lost Things

A small, pink, boy who is preoccupied with what is left behind when a person passes by or disintegrates after they go. Fillings. Surgical inserts. Prosthetics.

To think about it. He holds off considering what he could find, adding a further layer of pleasure. How can he fulfill his desire? Does he hope to even consider achieving his aim? From where? These things are not accessible in the normal world, are they?

Items left behind. That which marks a life and what it represents as part of that life. He is hungry for this. The memories and experiences. The emotion, sacrifice, and creativity.

Diamonds cast into the muck.  

He births these thoughts into the world earlier than expected. Around the beginning of puberty. He is scared and apprehensive but he can feel commitment rising in him. But, as with all important things he starts out on the ground floor.

Start

He walks the streets when he has time for himself, which he does sometimes. I can see him in my memories now. Head down, eyes swivelling painfully. Mind calm yet ready. He is looking for things that people have left behind.

Not everything, of course. That would be impractical. He sees and registers many things that pass through him and moves on. Cigarette butts, food wrappers, bottles and bottle tops. Newspaper pages, and store receipts. Garbage. Worth something to touch but not much. He holds the idea of receipts in his head for consideration later on though.

His focus drops again and he sees a brochure, some animal bones, a petrol cap, and a dirty rag. He can feel himself smiling absently and knows something is coming towards him even as he himself moves towards something. This is a surety. A security that the two will meet in an inevitability. A constant that hasn’t failed yet or since.

Found

The small boy can feel himself moving into a zone of influence. Almost like moving into a network bubble and his emotions crackle in response. He grinds his chin into his chest so as to prolong the space between not having and having. I imagine his heart rate in increasing, his blood rising towards his skin, and a pressure headache clawing at him. His pace slows and his breath quickens as he finds he is reaching the very top of the mountain. His favourite moment is upon him. The moment to which all other moments aspire. Clamouring, clambering and reaching. Grinding and screaming.

He pulls his head back slightly and stops on the footpath. He’s such a drama hound.

All but a narrow beam of reality has disappeared and he can see his breath swirling down the corridor. At the end, a lost orthodontic plate. The colour of the plastic is faded by the sunlight and an accumulation of filth. He guesses it’s been there maybe a month.

The tension in him releases in an expulsion of air and a quiet moan.

Captured

He rushes forward, scoops up the plate, and it is in his pocket quick-smart. I can see his hands are shaking as he walks, but doesn’t run, rapidly away. He doesn’t want to draw attention but he must rinse the gunk off his hand. It links him to the act of acquisition and he wants to sever that line. It is his now and that is the only history that matters.

The boy gets home and hangs his coat near the front door. To do anything else would cause ripples in the home and bring down his mother’s attention before he is ready. For him to do anything other than what was expected if him would mean less time for himself and more for her.

Waiting

He nods and grunts at comments and questions while he eats his both delicious and bland meal. Simultaneously frustrated and patient. Calm and frantic in equal parts.

Following dinner, he stays at the table and does his homework automatically. Effortlessly giving the expected responses which have seen him rise to the top of his year. A pariah and a loner. Very suitable states to be in.

He manages to inject the phrase ‘pink plastic’ into a written answer and shuffles in his chair at the exquisiteness of it. It is not too out of place. His teacher barely applies much effort in reviewing his work anymore anyway, such is the confidence they have in this lonely, happy, and boring boy.

He can hear his mother shifting cutlery and dishes around while she sings modestly to herself. Good. The boy surmises she has had a good day. Not too many coffees and wide-eyed moments.

I can see him closing his text book to get her attention and she glides over to the table, drying her hands expertly. He watches her reading his words and knows she is partially, mostly, somewhere else. She finds phrases and words that she likes and finishes up. Next step, she manifests his dessert and moves it across the table to him. He’s nearly there and feels light-headed. He won’t have to wait too much longer now. All the same, he eats his sweet slowly and methodically. Skimming his spoon around the bowl, peeling layers away and putting them in his mouth. Patience and frustration suspended in space for as long as possible. Excruciating.

He watches a television programme with his mother, forcing himself to sit still and not fidget. Proud to pass this personal test of discipline. Part of him is genuinely interested in the series they have been watching together and he enjoys the quiet time in his mother’s company.

She is drinking her one drink and he can smell its sharpness in the air.

A silver cord hangs loosely and with weight between his mind and the coat by the front door.

The programme finishes and his mother is satisfied.

Ritual

The boy goes to his room and waits quietly until he hears familiar creaks and bangs. Then he waits some more.

I can see him taking familiar paths across the hall and down the stairs. Quiet as a mouse. His bare feet are cold but he doesn’t mind one little bit. They’ll be warm soon enough with the hot flushes to come. He reaches into his coat pocket and brushes against hard, pink, plastic and detects the responsiveness of the metal wiring. Grit reattaches itself to his fingers.

I watch him pad back to his room, controlling himself admirably and with practiced effort.

He goes to his cupboard and moves the back panel away, exposing his private alcove, with all its little but immeasurably important things. The boy moves to his bedside table and clears away his bed friends, his writing book, and his pens. He is making room.

He is making room so that he has enough space to do something that he doesn’t really understand. He knows the result but not the why of it. To be honest, neither do I. I assume you don’t either. All that matters is that it works sometimes.

Whatever this comes from or however it arrives, it feels natural. What else would it be? There is only silence when these questions are asked. Ignorant silence. No matter, it’s always about the end point anyway. As long as we get what we want.

I can see that the bowl is there now and that the plate has been placed in it neatly and in good order. Respect is somehow important. Salt has been added and spit has been spat.

The boy is in the bathroom now washing his hands for the millionth time. He is smiling to himself. He is proud of how quickly he works. I think he’s coming along quite nicely.        

He slips into bed and reaches over to turn off his rocket lamp. An overdue remnant of his past.

I can see his eyes now shining in the starlight and I know he is aware of me in his room. We could be called friends now. We have enough shared between us to bring us close sometimes. Other times not. But those times don’t matter to him as long as he gets what he wants and goes where he does, I am his friend.

And he is mine as well. Mutual ownership. I love him and do my best for him with what little knowledge and agency I have. My happiness is derived from this and that is how it should be.

Can you see us together in his room in your mind? I hope so. The boy does too.

Maybe he’ll find something of yours one day. Wouldn’t that be an odd but wonderful synchronicity?

End

The boy is drifting down through the layers before sleep. It’s taken a while this time as he is so excited but we both have patience in abundance.

Patience is key in this game. Patience and will.    

I whisper needlessly, “Let’s begin.”