‘Carpe diem, seize the day. gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’ John Keating.
Some bright spark had decided that Christmas at Gorton cemetery would be bright and cheery. They enhanced it by planting a tiny conifer with bells and baubles on their elderly relatives’ grave. This was next to a middle-aged man.
Well, if anyone knows anything about gardening is that small acorns grow into large oak trees.
That day Reg had his day planned out, just as any other really. It had been a particular busy time as burials were coming in thick and fast. You see winter took its toll on the old and Reg was never lost for work.
His attention had been drawn to this particular tree that had wrapped and wound itself around a relatively new grave. He loaded his chainsaw onto his trailer and he would see to it that the trunk would be sliced through. He liked to keep order in his cemetery as he was the proud keeper of those that had passed.
You see Reg’s vocation was looking after the dead.
Most would shun away from this job. but not Reg. He took pride in making sure the shells of the souls that had passed and moved on, were looked after.
Reg sometimes worked late as he took pride and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of this space.
He often spent time with those who came to grieve, those that claimed to be in touch with the afterlife. Reg had his own experiences. He knew that the gift was just slices of a time shift. It was like a dream where one would meet with a departed one. Real while it lasted but just a slip in time as the afterlife crossed.
He had always been a gravedigger. Not a term that was used these days. He was meant to be retired. Younger men with their digger trucks were now the norm for lifting the earth. Reg still had the stamina to dig with a spade.
Cemetery workers or burial custodians now, not for Reg, he classed himself as a gravedigger.
He pottered over to his wife. He had taken care of everything. every last detail he had executed. She would be buried in his cemetery that way he would take care of her on a daily basis.
Reg still had keys to the large iron gates. It did not disturb him in the slightest. As dusk set, Reg would unlock and walk the paths between the tombs.
Reg would take his place on the bench to meet with the deceased a flask of tea in hand. He reflected on the day of his wife’s final moments. Her casket bumped with the clay and the earth. The dank earthy scent married with the elements, be it rain, frost, or sun.
He drank a warm drink from his flask. He watched the dancer tiptoeing around the stones. The dancer seemed locked in time.
The soldier in a mass grave with others sat and lit his cigarette.
The child, a young girl, pirouetted whilst waiting for her mama to visit. Her mama was also interned. She could no longer physically adorn her daughter’s resting place with posies. The flowers would have come from her garden. Not realising her mama was only a few graves away, freshly dug.
He was awash with memories. He pulled his coat and scarf around him. His memories again the forefront of his mind, he made his way home. At that moment, four young children started playing a game of hide and seek amongst the tall and older stones.
He smiled to himself. He thought he would come back tomorrow. He planned to cut the tall grass they had all trampled through.
Julie Modla
The human experience. 