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He had seen the cane. He'd seen the limp. Yet he didn't care. He had treated me like anybody else. Unless that was why he'd waved in the first place—out of pity or obligation.
Most people just look. They stare. But you watch. Youseeme.
Just like that, the night grew heavy, and my shoulders sagged as I approached the towering stone entrance of a cemetery. The gates were still open even though the sun had set, and my lips curled into a relaxed smile as I headed inside.
Cemeteries had become one of my favorite places over the years, especially now, when the living did nothing but make my heart race and my brain tired. The dead didn’t judge. I found they were just happy to have the company.
But the dead also didn’t talk, and tonight, I wanted to talk.
So, I pulled out my phone and did the last thing I should’ve done.
I called Lennon.
“Wow, hey,” she said, answering right away. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
I chuckled, walking slowly along the dirt path between the rows of graves and monuments. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”
“Because you're calling me,” she said pointedly, like it should've been obvious.
“I've called you before,” I reasoned, silently reading the names as I passed them by.
Roger Montgomery 1913-2001
“Not for no reason.”
Caroline Sherman 1927-1993
“Oh.” I stopped at one monument to crumple my brow and stare blindly at a carved marble statue of a praying angel. “First time for everything, I guess.”Yeah. Like your stupid envy. “So, what've you been up to while I've been slaving away in the studio?”
“Oh, um, just writing mostly.”
George Matthews 1932-2018
“Writing?” I asked, more intrigued by this tidbit and less with George and his eighty-six years on earth. “What sort of writing?”
Lennon laughed nervously, as if I'd asked her something private. Intimate. “It's not really anything. I'm just trying to, you know, do something with my time that isn't … I don't know … sitting around and waiting for shit to happen.”
“Well, it's gotta besomething,” I replied, shuffling my foot against the dirt and tipping my head back to look up at the old trees blanketing the sky with skeletal limbs. “You wouldn't be wasting your time on it if it was nothing.”
“I don't know about that,” she said quietly. “I've wasted a lot of time on nothing.”
Was it a jab toward me? Maybe. Did I deserve it? I didn't know. But I chose to let it roll off my chest as I wandered farther down the path.
“Come on,” I coaxed her, wanting nothing more than to hear her voice ramble on about something. “Humor me.”
She sighed like I was paining her. Like talking to me was a chore and she'd rather be doing anything else. But then she replied, “Okay. So, I've always been into writing these stupid little stories. When I was younger, everybody told me I'd be an author one day, but obviously, I haven't done anything with that. Writing was always something I did as a release or … I don't know … a hobby.
“But …” she continued, releasing another breath. This one tight and strained. Held with something more like excitement and hope. “My brother suggested that maybe I should try my hand at writing a book. I mean, it's something I've always wanted to do, but it was always kinda daunting, you know?”
“I do,” I replied, nodding slowly as I came upon a worn stone bench. I sat on it, hissing against the cold, and looked to the monument and tree ahead. “I've felt that way my entire fucking career.”
She snorted, as if I'd made a joke. But I was dead serious.
“Yeah, well, I'm just starting on this thing. It's been a couple of weeks, and it's coming along okay, I guess. It might end up being a pile of total trash, but the time's passing anyway, right? I might as well try.”
William Henry Fuller. Born 1736. Died 1774.
“Yes, it is,” I muttered, nodding and wetting my wind-bitten lips as I read silently,Open your skies, O Lord, for through the ghastly flames rise the ashes of your son and humble servant. A man of pure heart, devotion, and unfaltering heroism, up until his final breath.
