I walk through the cemetery alone. My feet tread lightly along the broken path that winds its way through the tombstones. Tree roots have broken through the old concrete in some places, making it dangerous to walk without looking down. Above me, in my peripheral vision, the sky is cloudy and gray, promising rain. I shiver at the chill in the air, and try my hardest not to imagine the bodies buried just beneath the surface on either side of my path, even though I can still see the mounds in front of some of the headstones. The crows constantly cawing from the surrounding trees do not help my feelings of unease; nor do the various statues, staring down at me with stony, mournful eyes. To get my mind off of Alfred Hitchcock, I focus my attention not on the mounds beneath the stones, but on the words carved into the stones. Hundreds of names and dates flash before my eyes and weave their way in and out of my consciousness. I am amazed at the dates on some of them, which go all the way back to the 18th century. I wonder what their lives were like. Who were they? What dreams did they have? What goals did they pursue? What disappointment, sorrow, love and joy did they experience before death brought them to this place, to be buried in the ground and forgotten? I read some of their epitaphs and try to imagine what these words say about the person whose name that takes up half of the stone. "No shadows yonder, all light and song." "He touched many lives, and left with each of them a small part of himself." "Swing open the golden gate, and let the victor in." "Resting." Truth be told, I am not sure what to make of most of them; they just seem like hasty words printed in stone, and many of them are repeats of one another. Some of them are beautiful, though, and tug lightly at my heart.
A cemetery is a place of death. It is the sacred ground where the shells of those who were once living are put away and buried, out of sight, under the ground. Those who dwell there will never think another thought. They will never feel another emotion. Their cold hands will never again move to smooth a fevered brow, chop firewood, or write a story. Their pale lips will never again part in song or discussion or confession of love. Their still feet will never again tread the paths of this earth. They are dead. There is no life in them, in these humanoid shells.
And yet, in the midst of this death, there is life. There is the grass, strong and sturdy and refusing to die, even in the cold weather. There are the trees, tall and intimidating, speaking sorrowful stories of all that they have seen in their sad realm, and yet blooming and coming vibrantly alive each new spring. There are the crows, which, harbingers of death though they are, still live. And there is me, a young woman just starting out in life, winding my way among the tombstones. I seem awfully out of place, as the light of life burns brightly in me. I think thoughts and feel emotions. My hands swing freely by my sides. A song slips through my pink lips. My feet move along the path with ease. I am alive.
Death, robed and hooded, stalks through the fields of this world; he reaps as he goes and takes from the earth those who were once living. Death is strong and all-consuming. There is no living thing which cannot be touched by it. And yet even death must yield to Life;.
"Jesus said to her, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die…’" John 11:25
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Unnamed Story Part 1
There once was a girl who could not cook. Really. I mean, she was physically incapable of cooking. Of course, she could throw some eggs and milk and flour and chocolate chips into a bowl and mix them up and put them in the oven; but her creations always came out tasting terrible like sandpaper or horse dung or some other awful and unedible thing. This non-talent was quite a detriment, since she happened to be the current cook-in-residence of the only inn in Pick-Axe Town, a small mining town populated only by men running from their past. However, none of the men could cook any better than she, so none of them complained; at least, not so anybody could hear them.
What they did complain about were her crazy mood swings. She had this knack for being the most expressive person in the room, but what she was expressing was the complete opposite of what everyone else was feeling. For instance, if someone had died in a terrible mining accident, had just gotten his head crushed and his body mangled by some cave-in and had died a slow, horrible, painful death where nobody could extract him in time, the rest of the town would be mourning for weeks. None of the men would speak much, nobody would eat, they would drink themselves into comas. But this girl, Janine, oh she would just sing and smile and glide about like a happy little elf attempting to spread her joy to the rest of the world. It was God-awful annoying. Then, if say the mining town struck gold, found out that their mine was the biggest and riches in the country and they would all be billionaires before they could blink an eye and would never have to work again another day in their lives, the men would all be rejoicing, eating up all the food in the Pick-Ax Inn, laughing rowdily and probably breaking into fights, and drinking themselves into comas, while she would complain and mope and break into random fits of sobbing. It was ridiculous. But, I can't say too many bad things about her, considering that she is my wife, and she WILL kill me - at least, she will if everyone else is in a good mood. You can't hear it, but I'm heaving an exasperated sigh at the moment. Somebody help me.
Anyways, that's actually not really part of my story, and it's probably a really crappy introduction. So, here is the real introduction. This is a story about me. My name is Nathaniel Benson Waternewski XXIII. I come from a long, proud line of Nathaniel Benson Waternewskis, all of which have owned successful inns across the country, and even across other countries. Waternewski Inns have always been some of the best in the country. In fact, during the time of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Nathaniel Benson Waternewskey XII, our inns monopolized the whole country. It was a proud time in the family history. On top of this, all of our men have served at least one term in the military, proving themselves as men and the hard workers that they are expected to be, and always have been. Our family trophy shelf has countless awards for bravery and courage, which all of my forefathers have won on the battlefield for their sterling character, hard work, and extreme manhood.
And then, somewhere down the line, something tragic happened to the family. I was born.
What they did complain about were her crazy mood swings. She had this knack for being the most expressive person in the room, but what she was expressing was the complete opposite of what everyone else was feeling. For instance, if someone had died in a terrible mining accident, had just gotten his head crushed and his body mangled by some cave-in and had died a slow, horrible, painful death where nobody could extract him in time, the rest of the town would be mourning for weeks. None of the men would speak much, nobody would eat, they would drink themselves into comas. But this girl, Janine, oh she would just sing and smile and glide about like a happy little elf attempting to spread her joy to the rest of the world. It was God-awful annoying. Then, if say the mining town struck gold, found out that their mine was the biggest and riches in the country and they would all be billionaires before they could blink an eye and would never have to work again another day in their lives, the men would all be rejoicing, eating up all the food in the Pick-Ax Inn, laughing rowdily and probably breaking into fights, and drinking themselves into comas, while she would complain and mope and break into random fits of sobbing. It was ridiculous. But, I can't say too many bad things about her, considering that she is my wife, and she WILL kill me - at least, she will if everyone else is in a good mood. You can't hear it, but I'm heaving an exasperated sigh at the moment. Somebody help me.
Anyways, that's actually not really part of my story, and it's probably a really crappy introduction. So, here is the real introduction. This is a story about me. My name is Nathaniel Benson Waternewski XXIII. I come from a long, proud line of Nathaniel Benson Waternewskis, all of which have owned successful inns across the country, and even across other countries. Waternewski Inns have always been some of the best in the country. In fact, during the time of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Nathaniel Benson Waternewskey XII, our inns monopolized the whole country. It was a proud time in the family history. On top of this, all of our men have served at least one term in the military, proving themselves as men and the hard workers that they are expected to be, and always have been. Our family trophy shelf has countless awards for bravery and courage, which all of my forefathers have won on the battlefield for their sterling character, hard work, and extreme manhood.
And then, somewhere down the line, something tragic happened to the family. I was born.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)