Thaddeus

A man wanders a cemetery and reflects on his life work.

 

     Graveyards look different from the inside. Time slows, priorities rearrange, introspection abounds. Thick sheets of rain disregarded tiny, swaying stoplights and trespassed the cemetery’s wrought-iron gates. A solitary man traversed rows of graves, yet made no attempt to lift an umbrella or run for shelter. The storm saturated the brim of his fedora, while his tan trench coat blended him, at a distance, into the overcast sky.

 

     Hundreds of headstones littered the spongy field, providing an anthropologist’s thesis in symbolism. Shades of pale white, subdued mauve, an occasional midnight blue or glassy onyx. Designs austere and ornate. Textures rough and smooth. Shapes flat, squat, and obelisk. Every feature was an endnote, carefully chosen by survivors to reflect a personality trait.

 

     Generations might stumble across these stones and wonder who each person was, but the overcast man was intimately familiar with them all.

 

     Footsteps halted, shriveled fingers traced the wet indentations of an epitaph. Our Beloved Elisabeth, 1894-1902. Elisabeth was eight years old when she died, but ages every time she drowns.

 

     He remembered cattails wilting aside the pier. The trampled thud of wood slabs. The floating, trapped-air distortion of frontier lace. Desperate, gut wrenching sobs amid splashing.

 

     “Help me, Thaddeus!”

 

     Thaddeus stood immobile, casting a long shadow on the dock.

 

     Thaddeus stood next to her headstone, pelted by cold memories.

 

     Awkward silence rippled as the back of her torso surfaced. Her hair fanned out with wet buoyancy. Elisabeth turned underwater, a young woman now, and reached toward him seductively.

 

     “Don’t you want me, Thaddeus?”

 

     At the slippery base of the headstone, a cherub statue cradled a frightened lamb. Thaddeus envied the gesture. He looked up into the downpour and felt the rain on his face, bristled at a cognitive dissonance growing and gnawing from within.

 

     This time he plunged his arm into the murky water, but the frail grandmother slipped from his outstretched grasp.

 

     “It’s too late, Thaddeus. I’m dying.”

 

     Reaching inside his coat, he retrieved a sleek address book and flipped to Elisabeth’s entry. Raindrops splattered the exposed page, smudged the red ink that had crossed out her name long ago. He noted the contrast between seeing her name in cursive and block print, and wondered if the other scribe shared his malaise.

 

     Does part of an engraver die vicariously with each headstone as he appends the encyclopedia of misfortune? How does a stone cutter bear the constant reminder of mortality, knowing a date will come that must be chiseled by someone else’s hand?

 

     The sky mourned, and Thaddeus blurred into the tears.

 

Reviews

[Pj]

That was actually quiet chilling...but wonderfully done!
Fantastic imagery and choice of words!
Nice job

[Mark D. Chevalier]

The imagery was a potent mix with the thoughts of Thaddeus. The picture I was able to visualize was carried very well, and flowed effortlessly. Cudos Michael!
M

[luthien7]

Very powerful imagery here. It is impossible not be sucked into the scene and experience the story. You have a great deal of talent...I envy you. This story is beautifully told. Nice symbolism in the various forms of water (rain, the lake? where Elisabeth drowns, tears), choice of colors... Absolutely in love with this one.

[Steffi]

Wow your descriptions are amazing. I Thought this was really well written!
The whole imagery of the scene by the grave was inspired!