It's the blue hour on a Saturday morning; that sliver of time that’s just before the birth of day. Which is ironic considering I'm standing in front of a graveyard. I know it's a chilly morning, for the usually reflective surface of the steel fence is home to a distinctly matte finish like that of a cold glass mug taken from a refrigerator on a hot day. I patted the pocket of my worn, green jacket and heard the paper I had folded up inside crinkle back. With my eyes on the rickety fence, I noticed the trail of dead grass that led me to the graveyard from the road of nowhere. As silently as possible, I flicked my fingers against the slender latch of the gate.
An eager breath seized in my throat as the skeleton-like gate budged only a bit. It was as if it had decided to delay my passing through. The fingers of my left hand fluttered in the misty air as I nudged the rounded edge of the thin gate. It finally swung open. I then let the air escape from my lungs in a noiseless, short burst. I was determined to be respectful toward the guardian of this sanctuary because I felt I belonged here.
My lips curled into a sly smile as my eyes shot from headstone to headstone. Tender tokens of affection lined the halls of the deceased as nary a sound stirred. Small gestures of regret, sadness and loss were the only things allowed to sparkle above ground in the highly selective grass-covered apartments.
Slowly, I shuffled to the section that summoned me on this chilly morning. It was in the farthest corner of the graveyard, where they put the nameless or otherwise forgotten patrons. Hearing my knees crack as I bent down, I snapped my neck in absent pain.
Before I settled into my area, I looked back on what I passed on the way here, only to come to a horrifying realization.
The clean lines in the grass, the elegantly trimmed hedges and the pots of flowers were all significant of what I thought was the worst about our world. In the beginning, the shrines were bright and new only to turn faded and forgotten as the present becomes the past. Like the fading gestures, I followed this road of nowhere to find my somewhere.
The paper in my pocket crinkled again and I finally heeded it. I took it and a plastic bag out of my pocket. The bag held a small chunk of charcoal that I had hidden away sometime ago. I put the paper and charcoal down and ran my hands through the cool, crisp grass. Droplets of dew splashed against my fingers as I ran my palms against dry lips to taste the chilly morning.
I was the only one in the graveyard at this blue hour but I knew that would change.
In a few hours, I knew I wouldn't be.
My eyes lingered on the small shed in the center of the graveyard as a contemptuous sigh left my lungs. In the strands of the hazy morning, I licked my lips with disdain over the concept of paying homage to the dead with gaudy trappings of the living. Absentmindedly, I tore a sheet of paper from the stack I carried and placed it against the headstone that rested in front of me. I noticed the corners of the paper began to curl together. I grabbed a handful of rocks to flatten it against the headstone. I didn’t want to be interrupted during the time I had left to myself.
The mourners, they will come in a few hours, all dressed in their identical black garments bringing with them their baubles of regret.
As I reflected on the nature of the living versus the dead, I took my charcoal and rubbed it against the covered face of the headstone. Faint lines and jagged curves just barely began to appear as I scrubbed against the stone with my piece of black magic.
Their tokens of sadness will line the invisible shelves of the graveyard, ripe for selfish theft.
Dust from the charcoal fluttered to my knees as I rubbed and rubbed. I took a mindless swipe across them and managed to rub the black dust into my jeans, I think I even left a mark on the headstone with a painted palm.
Their trinkets of loss will glitter for only so long before Mother Nature would start to devour her occupants.
Sweat began to form on my face as I rubbed and rubbed on the headstone, the words it barely held finally being parsed with the charcoal.
They will grieve over losing a loved one. Their cries of pain will reach Heaven but fall on deaf ears; save for their own. After all, history exists for the living, not the deceased. The world looks better in black and white but the future that lies ahead has a far more vibrant tone. But color fades—same as memories, so will the history that remains locked in books only called upon when needed. Just looking at the way the graveyard is constructed gives one that grim perception.
Tall poles of wrapped barbwire guards the trees that surround the sacred ground. That way, no one is burdened with the inconvenient sight of comatose dreams. Even the placement of the graveyard is just far enough to be out of mind, never mind the section I was in. Weeds seem to be the only worriers of the dead here. In fact, the way they embraced the lost headstones was touching to me, the union of plant and stone seemed far more palatable than that of man and stone. Of course, being gone for so long, I really couldn’t say. I had a sneaking thought that the weeds were never removed from the headstones so as to keep them covered, perhaps even hidden.
But I found it. I had broken through the shield of vegetation. It entered my mind as I heeded its raspy, organic voice. Because I am like it. I came to pay my respect not only to the dearly departed, but to the emotional fissures I carry within. Veins that wrapped my once beating heart were like the weeds to the headstones: powerful, needed and yet utterly unnecessary.
I turned to face the entrance. The crisp morning will melt into the dawn as the haze scurries away to wait for the dusk. The grass I trampled will rise again to stand at attention and I will leave this graveyard never to return at the blue hour or any hour for that matter. The charcoal dust I scattered will blow away in the breeze of coming seasons and even the name I locked onto this piece of paper will fade. Even the paper would crumble one day. But dust always moves. Life always moves. As does death. Perhaps the answers to being alive lie in that of the dead, but now I fear that my time here is waning. Ears grow weary of constantly listening, just as memories splinter with every recollection.
The paper in my hands seemed to fold itself as I stood and placed it and the charcoal back into my pocket. The blue hour was fading and something else was coming to take its place. The road that led me here beckoned once more and I had no choice but to take it.
I, like others from years gone by, will wander this road to nowhere in the blue hour searching for my dawn.
