Darkness was Falling

Darkness was falling as I fought my way through the thick jungle of ferns. I knew I should not have returned, not after so much time had passed, but this was the one place I had always felt safe. Even as a young child, I could never understand why people were scared of cemeteries. They were quiet, peaceful. The thought of being with hundreds of dead people did not frighten me. They were all living once. They all breathed and spoke, and walked through this very place, knowing that one day, others would come here to think of them. I gently pushed open the white, rusted gate. Silly – as though the moaning and creaking of metal would disturb them. I stopped at the little blue basin and, as customary, washed my hands three times. Right, left, right again. I didn’t sign my name in the guestbook. I didn’t need recognition.

I walked silently through every line of graves. I did not pass one grave without kneeling and reading the messages: Beloved father, treasured mother, our darling sister, dearest brother. These words did no good. Not when the last thing you’d told that treasured mother was, “I hate you.” Not when you’d yelled at your sister, told her to get lost, only to receive the call from the hospital hours later.

I found the grave I was looking for. There were no emotional messages, just the birth and death date, and the words, “The world turns” in neat script. These were my sister’s words – always Zen.

I lay down on the wet grass, placing another pebble on the grave. I pressed my cheeks, slick with tears, to her gravestone. “What’s it like up there?” I choked out. Silence.

Then came a soft whisper, “Get me out of here,” louder and louder until the words were being screamed and I realized it was me. “Get me out of this place,” I whispered again. But there was nobody to hear me.

I pulled myself up, wrapped my arms around my knees, and convinced myself she was comforting me as I rocked myself to sleep and waited to join her.