Urn Walks

A group of teens walk through a mausoleum and discuss "the old soul" among other things.

The quiet was not the oppressive silence of a computer lab or the tranquil peace of a sanctuary nor was it in between. It was other; it was especially other because it was niether created by focus nor particularly desired. It came from the small separation between flesh and dust that lives in mausoleums. The people inside the marble walls didn't mind the future coeds and they didn't mind the people inside the walls. The youths were filled with a strange interest in the idea of the life of the dead.

 

"I wonder what Seth and Martha thought of Kafka in 1967 and 1974," the pale dancer whispered. The shadow skinned girl tipped her head side to side and shrugged.

 

"Sadly, I doubt Martha read The Trial. You read The Feminine Mystique; at that time she probably didn't get to have an opinion."

 

 "You don't really believe that women were so 'oppressed' that Martha couldn't have read and been fully equipped with context to think critically about Kafka."

 

 "No, I don't. But I find that being less optimistic and expecting less of reality makes it more beautiful when the extraordinary happens."

 

 "That's a sad world to live in."

 

"All magical worlds are sad."

 

Such conversations, the twists and turns and waxy spikes of poetry, were the reason the book club existed. They breathed this conversation as quietly as possible. Still it echoed all the way down the central hall and back again. The sound whispered over a tall young man with long blond hair. He was the third member of the book club that day and he held a sort of mystique to his mates. His sounds of living bothered the people in the walls the least. The girls had no way of knowing whether or not he was listening to the conversation. They didn't care. This was not that kind of meeting. As they walked the halls, the boy and one of the girls with no shoes on, they read the names to themselves and contemplaited the lives of all the couples buried together. There were flowers in a few sconces but no other trace of other life there. When they came to the urns they paused as a group. In this part, strangers were sat closely in a myriad of bronze jars.

 

 "I think I want to be burned."

 

 "Why," the pale girl asked while the boy raised an eyebrow.

 

 "Then I could be made into pencils. Then maybe I can make a great poem. I could finally be apart if a great story."

 

 "Pencils? Thats mildly creepy."

 

"Creepy, are you saying you won't write with me when I'm gone?"

 

 "Goodness no. I could imaging writing an article or essay with my best friend. I can't imagine picking up a pencil to draw a picture..." she returned her voice to a whisper. "...and knowing that you died to make it."

 

"But what if it was one of those awesome triangular pencils." The dancer shook her head.

 

 "Would you write with me?"

 

"Perhaps," answered the golden haired gentleman.

 

"We're going to be good friends."

 

 "We're already good friends and I won't write with your dead body. What makes you think he will be a good friend because he will?"

 

 "Because I would."

 

By this stage in the discussion of Dandelion Wine, they turned to the book. They muttered their opinions on the theme and drew parallels to their own summer and childhoods. They spoke of the preservation of imagination and the death of it as one grew. How the older one got, the more depressing the power to feel excitement over the new because it came hand in hand with a necessity to see more of the world. They see more sadness as well, and more pain in addition to the beauty and wonder of the university. For they old soul, the darker girl began, the sadness comes sooner. It comes sooner because remembering to be in awe becomes more difficult the more you understand the world. This began an argument about old souls as they all considered themselves to be such. The discussion about the book was lost when it began. Now they were silent. Each looked out into the courtyard. Each was mesmerized by the the sun playing on the marble walls of the few rows of dead. They split for the first time and meandered separately through the shining place. The heat weighed on their heads. The shadow girl felt the new warmth of the cold bodies through their stone rooms. That warmth and the sun's forced her into a small crypt. It had a stained glass window and a little bench opposite the statue of a golden retriever. Soon the dancer came and sat beside her. After about longer, he came and sat between them. This arrangement, girl-boy-girl, was not by design. It happened because he had come last to the bench. They all shared the tendency create bubbles. They liked the connection of beinga unit but wanted to be as far apart as possible. As the final arrival, the boy had to be the air.

 

"This makes me sad. I don't want my dog to die. He's my best friend," the pale girl whispered.

 

"I thought I was your best friend."

 

"You're my best human friend, for the most part."

 

 "For the most part? If you're not sure then I'm not sure I can commit to this relationship."

 

"So then we aren't best friends?"

 

"I guess not. That means I have an opening in my friend line up. Perhaps Michael will take it, or Nate." There were quiet giggles from the pair.

 

"Hey, a position in my friends list has opened up. Would you like to apply for it?" The dark girl asked the blond young man.

 

"Perhaps." He whispered