Write a stream-of-consciousness piece, and no matter what comes of it, let it stand and publish it. Completion is not a requirement. It is somewhat ironic that, tomorrow, I have a very similar post scheduled. But, anyway, here we go.
The grave isn’t deep. It isn’t professionally dug. Who is it for? Maybe me, I shudder. Aging is no fun, but I’d sure rather keep aging than die outright, with no other say in my life.
“Hey, Cal,” I hear a cheerful voice say. It’s Roger (happy to see me, as always, despite the circumstances), coming up over the hill that marks the cemetery’s unofficial entrance. The official entrance is its wrought-iron gate, but the graves don’t actually show themselves until you crest that hill.
“I see you’ve found The Unmarked Grave.” Did I mention that Roger works here?
“It has a name?” Another shiver runs up my back.
“Sure. Every Halloween the cemetery hosts a sleep-over for the local kids. One of the activities at those sleep-overs is climbing into the unmarked grave there and seeing what it’s like. Most kids love it.”
I suppose any kid willing to sleep in a cemetery would love it.
I look around. The full scope of this place is hard to measure. So many humans have come before me. I am such a small piece of the tapestry of Human Events. (Something so big deserves capital letters.)
Then I find what I’ve come here to see. Roger picked the view–overlooking the calm lake, with its tall shade trees. Two graves together. These are not unmarked. My brother has made clear who rests here: Our parents.