Life and Death

The sound of laughter wafted with the breeze. “Remind me, again, why here.”

“Because it’s fun!”

Catharine paused, head cocked to the side, and considered her friend. “You’re not afraid, are you? There’s really nothing that can hurt you her. Other than what can normally hurt you, anyway.” She turned and looked at the field scattered with stones and monuments ahead. “It’s really peaceful actually.”

Quinton met her gaze with that half mad grin of his, though not, she noticed, without some apprehension in his eyes. “Psychological harm, Rin, psychological harm.”

Catharine’s sister pushed herself into the surprisingly small space between them. “Come on. It’s actually really interesting. It’s history. I thought you were the one who liked history. Besides, you never know when an undead being will show up and we’ll get to rekill it.” Catherine shot her a disapproving glance, which quickly dissolved into laughter. That musical laughter of hers dazed Quinton long enough for the two girls two grab his wrists and take off running, dragging him well into the sea of weather beaten stones before letting go.

Petrichor walked over to a live sized statue of a cat that rested within the roots of a tree and quickly swiped her hand across the back of its head. Catherine smiled. “She always does that.” The sisters moved among the stones, the elder gliding along, the younger more like a hiker upon the uneven ground. He watched the two of them with fascination. They were so at ease in this home of the deceased. Catharine hesitated pensively by an angel with partial wings; Petrichor dropped to a crouch when she noticed a pot of artificial flowers. He took a step, finding the ground surprisingly hard and level. Looking down, his face took on an odd color, simultaneously reddening from embarrassment and paling from fear. The headstone was small and flat, barely visible above the ground. The letters, once marking what poor soul (whose body) rested here, were worn completely away from age and weather. Quinton was amazed that his friends has referred to this place as “peaceful” and “fun”. It was creepy as heck.

Why was he so afraid? It’s not like the dead could come back and hurt him. Right? They would never again do anything, change anything. So why…?

Catherine called over to the others, her soft voice carried by the gathering wind. They all gathered in front of a tomb, covered mostly by a mound of dirt grass, with only the front and a vent like an old fashioned metal chimney from a potbellied stove protruding from the top. “Here lies John Hummel, buried 1885,” announced Petrichor, “I’ve always wanted to get through that door. It’s open, but the hinges are rusted shut or something; it won’t move an inch.”

Quinton examined the door, glad to have some details to distract him from his surroundings, a puzzle to solve. His maddened mischief returned to his face a little. The wrought iron door was stuck about an inch out of the doorframe. The lock appeared rather complex. A vent pipe on top sticking out of what seemed to be ground. As he walked around there were holes in what little exposed architecture there was, but, thankfully, he couldn’t see in.

While this was going on, Catherine climbed the mount to the top. The overgrown grass and other weeds tickled her exposed legs. She was glad to her friend put somewhat at ease. Brought him here because she’d thought he would love it, like her and her sister. Catherine found peace; Petrichor found excitement; both found adventure. She’d thought he’d find mystery or details in the names or…something other than fear. It hit her that they hadn’t really known each other that long, and she’d just assumed…

She herself had never been scared by gravesites. Even as a child, she enjoyed visiting them. For most of her life, her mother had called one her place of residence afterall. You’d think that would make her dislike the place that had claimed her mother, but it only made her like them more. This was the place that offered her mother a home after she was taken away by death. Catherine knew, now, that it was really only her body in the grave, that soul lived on, but she herself knew only this life, the material world. It was a comfort to know her mother’s body had a home, for now.

Catherine was now standing on the edge of the tomb. She was soon joined by Petrichor on one side; Quinton climbed up (noticing a chip in the top of the gray stone revealing a brick sized patch of red) and stood on the other. She stood and looked out at the view. The wind was really blowing now, the sky a puffy grey mass, sure signs of an approaching storm. She couldn’t help but throw head back and laugh. Her auburn hair whipped front, then doubled backed launching a vicious attack on her face. Quinton’s dark spikes of hair flopped around shielding eyes. Maybe cemeteries weren’t the worst place to spend an afternoon. He really wanted figure out what secrets John Hummel, 1885 held. Petrichor had shut her clear green soda-glass eyes and soaked in the feel of the storm. The fresh, sweet smell of recently cut grass, and the almost eerie animal silence. Nothing but the presence of her sister and friend (and perhaps, even part of her mother) and the wind and the presage of the storm remained. The wind, rapidity greatened by either proximity of the storm or height off the ground or both, carried on it excitement and change, maybe tragedy or maybe hope. Maybe not zombies or ghosts to battle, but definitely something wonderful. Disasters were horrible. But also wonderful, just for the movement and fluidity of life. All endings lead to beginnings. Even in a cemetery, life has not completely stopped. Time did not stand still, but continued to include the house of the dead.

Death did not end life.