Wednesday Night

Dog, Yellow Bus, Blackness

My shovel bites into the soil again. Why do I do this? Why can’t I stop? This Grove calls to me, and I know every tree. I know where the rabbits sleep, and the pile of flowers hidden so carefully. My dog lies on the warm soil, so happy, so content I’m glad he’s here with me. The only company I can stand, maybe even deserve. The night is quiet, and the moon is bright. I’ve come so far, and I know I’m almost done but it's been so long.

The wind blows gently from the West. I can hear the grass and trees sway in almost patterns. I wonder where the owl is tonight. Hopefully hunting and feeding her babies. Yet still I dig with nowhere to go.

The soil has gotten colder down here, and I’ve hit a few rocks, it's definitely slowed me down, but it won't stop me, the work must be done. Sometimes I wonder would it be different if she was here, but of course that’s silly of me to ask. I know the answer. It was just getting dark when I started, and it will just be getting light when I finish. The person to occupy this hole will never know me. They will never know I sharpened my shovel to make the work go faster. They will never know that I piled the dirt high so their family could stand near. Their family will see a hole, and a pile of dirt, but will never think for a moment of the sweat I spilled, and the memories I faced.

Tuesday Morning

White Dress, Flowers Everywhere, Red Car.

I’m in my Grove again. How long was I gone? Over 1700 acres of cemetery all fenced in, and I’ve nearly walked it all. I don't remember how I got here. My trash bag is full, I guess my job is done for today. Walking back to the shade tree I see a fire ant nest. I have been told to kill them on site, but they were here before me. I am not their god, so I turn a blind eye, and my conscious grows no heavier for another day.

The willow tree is magnificent, tall as it is wide. It provides shade and succor on hot days. The smell of it is so soothing. It takes me back to my childhood when we played for days guarded by the three sentinels. I hope children still play beneath their branches. I hope the old tire swing is still there, soaking their bottoms after every rain.

I'm not the only one here today, the old man has claimed his bench. He never goes to his wife’s grave. Instead he sits on that bench staring at his feet and staring at the base of a tree. She is buried fifty feet behind him, yet he never turns. Her gravestone faces the ocean, and I hope it brings her peace. I sometimes wonder if he was this close to her when she was alive.

I must find rest somewhere else. I will not suffer another man’s grief. Mine is enough.

Thursday Morning

Listen to me, she is behind that door, and it is just her momma in there. You need to control yourself.

During the rainy season it can drizzle for weeks. Weeks without seeing the sun or the heavens. Does that mean we can’t be seen either? Is this how we were forgotten so long ago?

Even without the sun, the world moves on. Everything sneaking another day of life from the gardener, utterly dependent on whatever twist of fate kept him outside the beds today.

I should have worn a jacket today, or better yet stayed inside. Instead, the weeds in my garden are reminded harshly, that their twists of fate will be guided by my hands. It is blackberry bush season, and it must be eradicated on sight, or it would be the end here, all life snuffed out in a few years’ time. You must firmly grasp the vine as low to the ground as possible and pull it cleanly from the earth. Only the rainy season makes this possible.

Grasp pull repeat. Again, and again until the last is pulled.

The Rainy season and Winter are my best times of the year, the work slows down, and the visitors decrease. I can go for hours without seeing another soul. The peace I experience during those rains and freezes is the balm that gets me through Spring and Summer.

Even without gloves I continue working, this will only end when the soil grows too hard to pull up the vines. The rain and my blood are mixing into pink translucent tears. Will my blood salt the earth? Surely there is a reason it flees my body, and not just because I am damned.

Grasp, pull, repeat.

I should feel pain, I should feel anything, but I don’t. If I could pour out the venom, or even just on drop, would my tears flow again?

Saturday Midafternoon

She smiles, then looks down, drawing my eyes to under the table. Madness

Tuesday Afternoon

1-2-3-4

This mower is all wrong, the noise, the vibrations seeking attention that does not belong to it. There is nothing wrong with it, but my grove craves silence. I scan the grounds for the orange cat and her kittens. The last time was too close. Would that I could use a scythe. I try so hard to finish as quickly as possible, but I know I am disturbing our guests with each pass. Their time with their friends and family is precious, and fleeting.

The birds take flight each time I pass their nests. The terror the animals experience is impossible to understand. I hope they forgive me.

I stop midway along the Southside fence. There, perfectly hidden behind a statue, is the near dump truck size pile of discarded grave flowers. I’m not disturbed by the littering, after all it’s a fact of life that we discard unimportant refuse. Instead, each time I see it, I wonder if the visitors would discard their friends and families’ bones if given the opportunity.

March 27, 2004, Saturday Afternoon

“What are you doing, are you out of your mind? You can’t go in there!” My hand is on the doorknob before I can stop myself. “She’s in there, I need to see her.” “You know damn well if you do, and her momma don’t kill you, then she will. Get your hand off that doorknob, you will see her at the alter in an hour.” From inside the room, I hear her shriek wordlessly. Laughing, I turn and sprint away from the door as fast as I can. God, I love that woman.

The entire church is filled to the brim with wildflowers, they are in vases and laying on every flat surface. Our friends and family helped harvest them over the last couple of days. Truckloads of flowers, they must have picked every flower for fifty square miles. I told her we could afford flowers, but she said “These flowers know how to work to survive, just like we do. I do not want some picture-perfect rose that needs a crew of gardeners to bloom in perfect conditions.”

The doors open and the light coming through nearly blinds me, I can’t see her, where is she? Then some trick of the heavens and I can see her, and only her. This church is filled with every person I love, but it’s as if they aren’t there. As she glides towards me, I feel my heart triple in speed, my breathing is too fast, and I am shaking like a newly born animal. There is nothing I would not do for her. For the first time in too many years, I feel warm tears fall down my face in joy and wonder. My body aches in my need to touch her.

She is so graceful on the dance floor, that she makes it seem like I am the one leading us. I have practiced for months to have our first waltz together. I now regret missing those steps with her for all these years. Now that we are married, I swear I will not pass by her without dancing a step or two with her.

Our first toast as a married couple, arm in arm trying to sip champagne. I try to, but she just puts the glass to her lips. When we sit at the table, the DJ begins harassing our group and the crowd. I ask “Was something wrong with the champagne? I can get you something else.”

Her smile melts my heart. She draws my eyes to under the table, where she gently pats her tummy three times with just her fingertips. She looks back at me and this time there are tears in her eyes.

I stop breathing, and just stare into her eyes, refusing to believe, and desperately hoping for all I am worth. She nods her head telling me yes. I try to stand up to shout, to tell everyone, but she places her hand over my arm and shakes her head no. How can this be real? I can’t speak, there is only my mantra: I love her forever, I love, and need her, Everything for her.

Hand in hand we race to my dad’s candy red Supernova that belongs more on a quarter mile strip than windy mountain road. Our friends and family throw handfuls of rice everywhere but near the car.

We race down the mountain! She is singing along with whatever is playing, and wiggling her butt in the seat. She yells above the music “This sinful red car goes a lot faster, get us down this mountain, we got a boat to catch!” “I am doing ninety, that’s good enough, just keep dancing, I’ll get us there.” Why is there a school bus coming up the mountain on a Saturday? She screams “Look out for that dog!” I look down and I see a large black dog cowered down in my lane, I can’t go into the left lane, I hit the brakes and try to steer to the right around the dog, but a race car’s suspension isn’t made for “S” turns. The tires bite the gravel, and the car begins to flip down the mountain side. Time stops for me; I look and see her face one last time. Her eyes are squeezed shut as if willing this reality to be anything else. Her hands aren’t protecting her head, instead she is trying to protect her belly.

Wednesday March 27, 2024, Late Evening

Another year goes by, and another year without you. I have given up on time healing anything. I don’t want to be here without you, but after that day, I know when I die, I won’t see your face. It is dark and cold; I am afraid all of the time. I have nothing and no one. I am so alone. I hate everything so much; and I hate me most of all. I will spend any time I have left here with you. This cold stone is a poor excuse for your hand, but it is the closest I can be.