Graveyard

At the top of the hill, Max sits against a gray obelisk. The sign below the hill says Home of Eternity, “Oakland Jewish Cemetary.” The roots of these trees, twisted and drooping – strangled, but strong; they feed in dirt packed to the brim with the grief of dead Jews. “Home of Eternity” he repeats to himself. Moving on the ground is an infestation: thousands of ants pour from seams and crevasses along the concentric walls, each grubbing at the earth, steeling its fruits. Together these stupid ants move with a common mad soul. It is eerie to find such wild life the dirt of a graveyard.

Max has spent the past days alone, and he is content. But here he senses that he is not alone. Yes, the presence of the dead floats in the September air. The tombstones, old teeth, sweep crooked across the green fields. One is never alone in a graveyard. Cold shudders shoot through his frame. Max is never alone. The presence of the dead, odorless and colorless, floats in is air: friends not there, mistakes committed, dreams lost – the sad memories of what is dead are strewn amongst the living like tombstones. Do not give too much too their ghosts, he knows. Dwell too long with the past, and the duties of living become too difficult. Every late-night trip to Facebook is like stumbling over tombstones of his past.

These thoughts fill his veins with sap. His mass is hot and paralyzed on the ground, as clouds begin to cover the sky and the first black drops hit the stone. Threads of rain shine obliquely against the trees and the sun. His cellphone rings beside him. It is a girl from back home. The rain falls everywhere now. From the flowers in the fields, to the spikes of the iron gate, to the crooked crosses and tombstones, it falls upon the living and the dead.