The Grave Keeper

By Matthew Schmidt

In the Fields of Blood, the grandest grave is not that of a king, lord, or soldier. Instead, it is the  resting place of a lowly woman that brightens the decrepit and crumbling headstones which surround it.  Her grave shows no sign of decay, though the headstone is hidden, preventing a thorough assessment of  its condition. The sea of colourful flowers that had once barely protruded over the shortest blades of grass  now towers over the headstone and surrounds it so that the engraving cannot be read. I had planted each  of the flowers myself shortly after I had taken up the maintenance of graves, though anyone who visits  would know I had not done much to maintain the graves beyond my wife’s humble plot. Not that anyone  minds. The fields attract none but the drunk and the sorrowful. It is only for her that I am here anyway,  and I will not leave, save by death. 

I call out to her frequently, and sometimes she speaks back. And when I am strong enough, I  listen. She says that she loves me but reminds me that she is gone. She tells me that saying her name will  not bring her back and that I must let her go. Then, she disappears, and I become weak. I call her name  again, hoping it will strengthen me as it did when she lived.

But my strength dies, and I pass out in tears. 

I wake to find myself lying with my head among the flowers at the base of my wife’s headstone. I  frantically pull myself onto my knees and begin to prop up the stems that were crushed underneath my  weight. A single teardrop falls and lands on a rose. The petals droop briefly before the flower gives, and  the teardrop joins the many others that have fallen around the grave since I began this daily routine born  of grief. More tears fall as I scramble to restore the flowers’ beauty. I admit, this job is better suited for a  son of the forest, or even a son of the sea, yet none but her husband could pay the proper respects. 

After I am satisfied with the appearance of the flower arrangement, I lie down between the  crumbled graves of some soldiers. I have spoken to them before, but they have grown weary of my  anguish. I seldom get more than a glimpse of one of their faces before they fade into the darkness, and I  am again left talking to myself. Once more, I try to find solace in my wife’s name, and she shows me her  face. She wears an expression of disappointment and reminds me that it has been five years since she  passed. I tell her I have missed her every one of those days and that I will miss her until my last. She  wants me to be happy, but I tell her I will not be. Not until I can feel her in my arms again. She says that  mourning for what is already lost will not bring it back, and that moving on does not reflect a lack of love.  She will always love me, but she wants to die in peace. But I will not move on. Just her image in my head  is preferred to nothing at all. She tells me she will not answer the next time I call her name, but I know  she will. She always does. 

Soon she will fade into darkness, and I will wake in tears again. I will cry her name and pace  mournfully around her grave. I will tell myself to eat something, but I will not. Eventually, I will pass out  in the fields, even though a soft pillow waits for me indoors. I will dream of her while I sleep and wake  again in tears. I will call out her name, and she will be there, telling me she loves me. Then, she will  remind me that she is gone. And the cycle will repeat. Day after day. Until my last breath.

By Matthew Schmidt