My pumps clip off the back of my heals as I tread along the path running through the fields planted with stones and crosses. Names, numbers, bad poetry engraved on every one. I divert from the path and start cutting inbetween them. A face for each name appears in my head. I stop at one: a couple; the husband fell asleep at the age of 49; the wife fell asleep at the age of 103. I think about those fifty-four years she lived without him. I wonder how long my Mum will remain faithful to the memory of my Dad. He isn't here. That's not why I came here. I don't know why I came here. It's certainly not out of habit; I've only walked past before, but when I saw the sun shining on it today something compelled me to walk through the wide open gates.
It is silent here, save the the sound of flapping wings as the birds fly from tree to tree. I go back to the path, my pumps loose, clipping off the back of my heals.
A black and white cat is walking between two gravestones. It stops, solid and looks at me. I press my bottom teeth to my top lip and suck in to make the noise of a mouse. This has never helped anyone when trying to attract a cat, ever. But still I try. The cat bursts into a bounding sprint and doesn't stop until it reaches the trees that surround the cemetry. There it stops and looks round at me again, curiously, before dissappearing behind a tree trunk.
I start walking back to the entrance gates. Near the entrance there's an angel, righ arm raised, reaching towards the sky. In it's left arm it is carrying a harp, and it is looking down at the ground, but still it is reaching with its right arm towards heaven. The right arm ends half way up the wrist; the hand is missing entirely. I look at the grey figure for the longest time, but when I turn away I don't remember any names or dates engraved on the statue. It doesn't matter, I tell myself.
Walking amongst these stones of names, dates and bad poetry I don't feel any sense of sorrow, dread or sadness. I feel at ease. Maybe it's all just meant to trivialise death. It makes slipping into nothingness easier to deal with. I'm certain the woman that lived fifty-four years after her husbands death managed those fifty-four years by thinking of death simply as falling asleep.
I start thinking to myself, their twin gravestones read out the same message, but only the dates were different. Then Sarah phones. The only reason I know this is because my phone tells me, as I answer to the heaving sobs of self pity that are running out of my phone.
'I can't believe I slept with him again,' she cries.
I start to ignore her and my mind begins to wander. I think of year 7, the first year of secondary school. Me, Sarah and a few other girls would sit together every lunch time. I remember Sarah telling us about getting her period: she was the first. She told us how her parents took her out for Chinese and they let her drink wine. That day, after school, I went to Superdrug and examined all the sanitary pads and tampons, deciding which one was right for me. I decided to buy a selection to try on at home, but when I got to the counter there was a guy there. I felt too embarrassed, so put them back. I chuckle to myself. Sarah says it's not funny. I forgot I had a phone pressed to my ear. I contempate telling her what I was just thinking of but she is already talking about herself again. I think that most of our conversations have replicated that day at lunch time when she told us about her period. Always telling me her experience like I am naïve to the ways of the world. Her life will always be worse than mine, she will always have more to complain about, but she will become a more worldly, well rounded person because of it. I feel the bloody pumping through my hanging arm – the one not holding the phone – making my fist clench. My jaw clenches too. Teeth pulled together tight. Sarah s whining down the phone, winding up a leaver increasing my blood pressure.
'Why are you phoning me Sarah?'
'What?'
'What do you want me to say? I've told you what you need to do, but I don't think you listen. I don't think for one second you have ever listened to a word I have said to you. You're a moron. You never ask me how I am, you just phone me crying about your idiotic mistakes.'
I pause and listen to the silence running up and down between the phones connected by satelites. The phone goes dead. I consider calling her back, but decide not to. I realise I have just been shouting down the phone in the middle of a cemetry.
It is silent here, save the the sound of flapping wings as the birds fly from tree to tree. I go back to the path, my pumps loose, clipping off the back of my heals.
A black and white cat is walking between two gravestones. It stops, solid and looks at me. I press my bottom teeth to my top lip and suck in to make the noise of a mouse. This has never helped anyone when trying to attract a cat, ever. But still I try. The cat bursts into a bounding sprint and doesn't stop until it reaches the trees that surround the cemetry. There it stops and looks round at me again, curiously, before dissappearing behind a tree trunk.
I start walking back to the entrance gates. Near the entrance there's an angel, righ arm raised, reaching towards the sky. In it's left arm it is carrying a harp, and it is looking down at the ground, but still it is reaching with its right arm towards heaven. The right arm ends half way up the wrist; the hand is missing entirely. I look at the grey figure for the longest time, but when I turn away I don't remember any names or dates engraved on the statue. It doesn't matter, I tell myself.
Walking amongst these stones of names, dates and bad poetry I don't feel any sense of sorrow, dread or sadness. I feel at ease. Maybe it's all just meant to trivialise death. It makes slipping into nothingness easier to deal with. I'm certain the woman that lived fifty-four years after her husbands death managed those fifty-four years by thinking of death simply as falling asleep.
I start thinking to myself, their twin gravestones read out the same message, but only the dates were different. Then Sarah phones. The only reason I know this is because my phone tells me, as I answer to the heaving sobs of self pity that are running out of my phone.
'I can't believe I slept with him again,' she cries.
I start to ignore her and my mind begins to wander. I think of year 7, the first year of secondary school. Me, Sarah and a few other girls would sit together every lunch time. I remember Sarah telling us about getting her period: she was the first. She told us how her parents took her out for Chinese and they let her drink wine. That day, after school, I went to Superdrug and examined all the sanitary pads and tampons, deciding which one was right for me. I decided to buy a selection to try on at home, but when I got to the counter there was a guy there. I felt too embarrassed, so put them back. I chuckle to myself. Sarah says it's not funny. I forgot I had a phone pressed to my ear. I contempate telling her what I was just thinking of but she is already talking about herself again. I think that most of our conversations have replicated that day at lunch time when she told us about her period. Always telling me her experience like I am naïve to the ways of the world. Her life will always be worse than mine, she will always have more to complain about, but she will become a more worldly, well rounded person because of it. I feel the bloody pumping through my hanging arm – the one not holding the phone – making my fist clench. My jaw clenches too. Teeth pulled together tight. Sarah s whining down the phone, winding up a leaver increasing my blood pressure.
'Why are you phoning me Sarah?'
'What?'
'What do you want me to say? I've told you what you need to do, but I don't think you listen. I don't think for one second you have ever listened to a word I have said to you. You're a moron. You never ask me how I am, you just phone me crying about your idiotic mistakes.'
I pause and listen to the silence running up and down between the phones connected by satelites. The phone goes dead. I consider calling her back, but decide not to. I realise I have just been shouting down the phone in the middle of a cemetry.
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