literature

Among the Graves

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Trailing her small fingers along the cool stone, her delicate face shows a peaceful contentment that no one understands. She loves this place, the calm and quiet that permeate the small yard just beyond the rot iron gates. Most people in their right mind would not linger here. It is a place of sadness, a place of ‘goodbye.’ To her, it is home.

She somewhat remembers, in the fuzzy recesses of her dreamy mind, the first time she passed these gates. The day was cold. Snow had once again graced the small village she lived in. Turning the streets into play ways for the village children, the white blanket of snow brought out the silly side of even the stuffiest adults. It was customary for the village to hold an impromptu winter’s party right there in the square.  Filled with laughter, joy, and in some cases, Mrs. Timmon’s best ale, the people would gather to rejoice in the beauty winters lady had deliver to them.

She remembers walking with her family, clutching at her mum’s hand, their fingers kept warm by woolen gloves placed inside muffs. They were luckier than some families. They had a bit of money. And this year, her father had bought her new boots, classy little black things with silver buckles. She was quite proud of those boots, and took great delight in prancing to the square in them. She knew her friends would be envious, and she enjoyed the thrill of seeing their eyes light up when they saw her new things.

Not that she was spoiled. No, she was very sweet and gentle when she put her mind to it, and had many friends amongst the village children.  However, a girl had a right to brag every once in a while. She had let go of her mum’s hand and dashed forward along the slushy street, spinning and giggling as her feet sunk into the wet whiteness.

Suddenly she came to a stop, her smile fading from her face. Shivering with a deep cold, she wrapped her arms around herself, struggling to regain her inner warmth. Her eyes wide, she looked up at the huge black gates, their intricate design curling around in a gracious fashion. There was something about those gates that tightened her throat painfully. Mesmerized, she reached out and stroked the freezing metal gingerly. Just beyond the gates, she could hear the mournful cry of someone left alone in the cold. Her heart broke for them.  Perhaps they had gotten lost, their family waiting for them in the square. She, with her gentleness, wanted to help them. So she moved to open the gates.

“Darling, come away from there!” Her mother’s voice commanded her. She tossed a look back over her shoulder.

“But, mother.  Someone in there needs help,” she argued. Her parents stopped beside her, their eyes scanning the entire yard.

“Sweetling, how do you know?” her father asked, puzzlement laced through his voice.

“I heard them, of course.”

Casting a fearful look at each other, her parents said nothing. Picking her up, they swiftly walked away from the gates. The farther away they got, the sadder she felt. Someone had needed her, of that she knew for a certain. She decided she would return as soon as she could.

And she did, many times. It became a ritual with her throughout the years. At least once a week, she would push her way past the gates, saying a sweet word to the guardian angels who watched over all the going-ons in the yard. She felt a sense of kinship with them.  Even with their stony countenances, she could see the caring expressions they bore.

She always headed down the main cobble pathway, past the vine covered mausoleum to the little flower garden that was situated in the middle of the yard. There was something strange about that garden. The flowers, of all colors and breeds, bloomed all year around. There, she could find the rarest of blue and black roses just after the first hard freeze.  The lovely orchids played peek-a-boo through the ivy, beckoning her to pick them. She delighted in doing as they commanded.

With her little hands full of the glorious blossoms, a few twined in her own tresses, she would wander down each lane, placing a flower here and there, until each grave marker and head stone sported a bloom of her choosing. Sometimes, she would stop and trace a name chiseled in the cold granite. Names of those long gone, some forgotten by the past, others well loved even in death. Somehow, she felt they knew she was there, a comforting presence enveloping her. She was sure they were just as grateful for her little token as she was for the serenity she found there.

When she reached her teenage years, she could be found there after school. Under the old giant oak tree, she would sit for hours reading. She had grown into a beauty by this time, with a fragile sort of  look about her. Her pale skin seemed to glow other-worldly, her dark eyes and rose lips standing in stark contrast.  Her disposition had mellowed to one of quiet grace, reflected within her walk and her voice. For those around her, she was someone they loved fiercely, despite the talk surrounding her.  Cold and mean were the rumors that flowed from sneering lips to sneering lips. Whispers, too malicious to repeat ran rampant among those who thought her deranged or worse- possessed.

Her family fought the wicked words called out to them and denied the accusations hurled, stinging their hearts like a packed snowball.  They didn’t understand her, this is true. But thoughts of evil penetrating her soul never crossed their minds. They pleaded for understanding with those of ill intentions, begging for mercy on her behalf.  And they tried, like good parents, to comprehend the reason for her perpetual visits.

“Why must you go there, sweetling?” her mother sobbed out one evening.

“They ask me to. They need someone to look after them. They need their flowers,” was all she could say.

To say that she didn’t notice, or that everything happening around her had no effect would be a lie. Slowly, her sweet spirit grew hollow, and she began to linger longer in the cemetery. It was only there that she could find solace and was left in peace. It troubled her that her family was being persecuted for her behaviors, and yet, still the voices called out to her. They begged her to return each day. And she was helpless to disobey them. It tore at her heart, for each day she spent there was one more that caused the rumors to grow.

Then came the night when it all changed. They came with fire and anger. Shouting, they stormed the door, demanding her parents deliver her to them.

Shaking, her mother screamed.

Enraged, her father stood fast.

Charging, the towns people rushed up the stairs.

And quietly, dressed only in her snowy nightrail, she slipped out her window. Quietly, she moved down the snow packed streets, almost floating in her haste to leave. Quietly, she entered those wrought iron gates and disappeared.

They say that to this day, if you linger in the yard on a snowy night, you may just catch a glimpse of her, laying her chosen flowers on the headstones, or reading a book under the tree.  If you are lucky, she will smile her serene smile at you, for all is finally right in her world.
Written for *simplyprose September miscellaneous prompt
We were to take a poem and write the essences of it in prose.
So I selected =dreamsinstatic's Cemetery Girl
as the base point. I hope it pays tribute to his awesome poem. Go check it out, along with its follow up Promises in Stone

(Honestly this was incredibly hard, I re-wrote the first lines 5 times. I am pleased with how it turned out. Enjoy!)

Edit: 10/08/09 Received "Most Creative Response" for the month of September..:wow:
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