The wind whispers forlornly over the tips of the gravestones of the old cemetery, in the distance, where the recent graves lay, a mower can be heard trimming the grass. In that far off place the trees are widely spaced, and the well-trod pathways are well kept but things are different where Joe walks.
Over head the trees are tangled in a show of contempt for those well-loved lanes of often visited graves. The trees here arch over the graves that sit in the darkness under their canopy protectively.
The trees say, “If no other loves you we still do.”
And they mean it.
Joe walks under those same leaves, under branches close enough to snag the beanie he habitually wore if they wished to.
But instead, the trees just watched.
Each grave he passes he inspects, his eyes old but still sharp. Some inscriptions have long since been weathered to nothing, others bear a shadow of what they once were but a few still stand as monuments to those they honoured.
Joe does not find what searches for, so he moves on.
The sun has moved in its arc from the east and now sits directly above him, glinting through the gaps in the canopy above, winking and reminding him of its existence.
“Don’t’ forget me,” the sun says, “Don’t get lost in the darkness.”
Joe spots a bench in a meagre clearing, his knees hurt and his back grumbles. A few minutes respite from his search; this he can spare.
He eases onto the bench, its rotten boards creaking beneath him. “Give way,” a part of him thinks, “give way and spill this old man into the dry cracked earth.” And he smiles.
The bench only laughs its old croaky laugh in reply.
Around the bench the grass has overgrown to knee height and here and there gravestones are almost hidden beneath the foliage. Under the canopy of trees there are pits of darkness that seem unnatural on such a bright day; and there’s a part of Joe that laughs at this too.
The darkness laughs back.
Unseen to Joe, stood half hidden by a thick tree trunk and steadying himself with one hand on a tilted gravestone stands another man. His dark blue suit is cut well on his form and the trilby sits on his head at a jaunty angle. Beneath it he smiles, and he watches; his eyes hidden in shadow.
Unaware of his audience Joe closes his eyes.
In moments he drifts to the whispers of the wind as it dances amongst the chattering trees. Beneath him the bench sighs as Joe’s face slackens and his shoulders droop; and then Joe hears the noise. Was it a shifting of leaves? Or was it a gentle exhale?
Joe looks up.
The man nods over to him, touching the rim of his hat in greeting. Even to Joe, a man who was old enough to remember the birth of the Beatles, the gesture seemed old fashioned.
Joe stands, a collapse in reverse, and something next to him slides into a pile on the seat.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s okay.” The man replies but doesn’t move. His voice is another wind-whisper, another tree-laugh and Joe already wants to smile. Instead, he glances at the grave, its name obscured by the elements and then back to the man.
“Are you… visiting someone?” Joe asks.
“Yes. My wife… And you…?”
“I… don’t know… I’m just here…”
The man nods as if he understands, still looking at the overgrown grave. Joe doesn’t understand, Joe realises he really doesn’t understand anything anymore.
“She’s been gone so long.”
The gravestone is worn almost smooth, and it lists to the side like a bad tooth.
“Have you been away?” Joe asks while trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.
“Why do you ask?” His eyes look back at Joe innocently.
“Well, the grave… It’s…”
“No one tends to it.”
“No…”
The man looks at Joe with an emerging frown; perhaps catching Joe’s meaning finally.
“That would be family work, if there were any left.”
“Oh…” Joe mumbled, unsure how to respond.
“Why are you here?”
Joe looks at the man, he was easily half Joe’s age, and it occurred to Joe that perhaps he should step carefully. The man looks back at him, apparently without concern.
“I… It was just a seat.” Joe says, again unsure how to respond.
The man’s eyes narrow slightly.
“But why here?”
Joe glance back at the rotten bench, his things still lay on it in a heap.
“I remember it as a child, it was a different seat then, but I remember it; I think. My Mom…” He suddenly remembers, a childlike expression settling on his face. “I was looking for my mother’s grave…”
He pauses, his words trailing off. The man watches him.
“Were you?”
A sudden need to continue his search fills Joe’s mind.
“I can’t find her.” He mutters.
Joe looks around the immediate area in a slow circle.
“Have you seen her?” He asks the man. “Her grave I mean… Her name was Patricia George?”
The man shakes his head.
“No, I’m sorry. You haven’t been here in a while, have you?”
“Neither have you.” This time Joe can’t help but sound accusing.
“I suppose, but I have excuses.”
“So do I…”
The man raises his eyebrows and Joe looks away: No, he has no excuses. He can whine about it, sure, but he won’t fall for it and neither, apparently, will the man. The man smiles a broad smile.
“Do you remember anything? A turn of the path…? A particular tomb…?”
Joe shakes his head: No. He points to the seat.
“I remember that…”
He shrugs his shoulders and looks back at the man and then something seems to pass through him, an epiphany of sorts. He then looks at the seat, taking a step towards it.
The man reacts to this, moving forward slightly to close the gap between himself and Joe; but Joe stops and looks back.
“Who were you with?” The man asked earnestly. “Who brought you to see your mother?”
Joe takes another deep breath, thinking deeply, something tickling on the edge of his mind. He looks at his hand, at the lines that cross it and the shudder in the tips of his fingers.
He was a child, and the park around him was filled with laughter from the roots of the grass to the tips of the leaves. The sun smiled down with impossible brightness and colours had an intensity that bled to the world around them like a psychedelic movie.
A hand reached for him, down from a height he was sure he would never achieve. The hand belonged to an arm and the arm to a man. Joe can’t make out a face, but he knows the feeling in his heart.
Joe reaches up slightly as if reaching for the adults’ hand. The man puts his hand over Joe’s and pushes it down gently. The man’s hand is cool and familiar, and Joe feels the almost impossible urge to grasp it.
“What did you remember?” The man asks gently.
Joe’s body tingles and the world around him seems to have twisted off kilter. He feels dislocation but no confusion; again, he shakes his head in a comfortable sort of incomprehension. His eyes move to the man, and he shakes his head again, this time with dawning realisation; and his eyes grow wide.
The man smiles a broad and familiar smile. A smile Joe had forgotten with his mind but remembered with his heart.
“Who do you remember?”
Joe points at the man, his mouth opening as if to speak but nothing comes out. The man laughs that familiar laugh once more at the silent movie quality of it and holds his arms open for a hug.
“Come here.”
Joe moves forward and the man holds him as he would a child. Joe shudders and buries his head in the man’s shoulder; silently he weeps.
“Why?” Joe’s voice is less than a whisper.
“Because its time…”
The man’s reply is merely a thought.
In an old corner of an old cemetery is a bench that has nearly rotted to uselessness and around this bench are trees that sway regardless of the time of day. As the suns falls and the moon shows its face the trees still dance their dance and laugh their laughter; and under them a man’s body waits to be discovered.
But the man himself is long gone.