Granite bulwarks and wrought iron barriers lay half buried in sand and mud. The sepulcher’s quiet inhabitants pulled into the sea by a hungry surf. Others survive the draw of receding breakers and lay on the lawn in confused foiled resurrection. The dead’s private, eternal time, intruded upon by the elements and wandering eyes of squawking seagulls and roving killdeers.
From the ground, caskets have popped up; like a child releases her submerged rubber ducky, the earth lets go of her prey: soulless bodies too buoyant to keep their vessels sunken: plain pine boxes and intricately decorated brass caskets: death’s equity hidden by life’s inequality. Hank drags his tired boots through the debris. His eyes locked onto the small path, shame and sadness are blinders. The mound of freshly turned soil beckons for daddy’s attention, but what’s the point. He’s proven that all the attention in the world cannot keep love alive.
The funeral: a week ago: a mile up the beach, Allie was taken into the storm; her own casket empty of more than an innocent soul. For Hank, seven days are one endless night. For now, time blankets no memory. The floral arrangements have wilted, providing a vivid, flaccid jungle for dozens of teddy bears and other knickknacks.
Years ago a greedy funeral planner provided a discount on cemetery property. He stands beside the space formerly reserved for him — in the other is the wife’s empty box — her body was never recovered after she jumped from their anniversary cruise a decade ago. Now his spot, filled with his daughter’s vacant casket, leaves Hank wondering if there will ever be a place to bury his own broken spirit. The monument company has yet to replace his tempered name with Allie’s.
He stares at the infinite half-inch between his wife’s name and his own. A blank space beckons for the date of his own demise. The rustling of a recent newspaper, blown against a nearby tombstone, catches his attention. Hurricane Hollie Annihilates The Texas Coast. Returning attention to the absent family, he brushes his fingers across the raised letters next to his and mouths the name he once wrote on the top of love letters and spray-painted on the lighthouse wall, the name he spoke after lifting the wedding vale, the name he screamed out during passionate couplings, the name he cried throughout lonely nights weeping, and the name which never leaves the empty yet haunted house sitting on his shoulders. “Well Hollie, looks like you’ve come roaring back into my life, and once again left it in shambles.”
On their second anniversary, Hank’s wife jumped from the bow of the cruise-liner, Serenity. She left their daughter, Allie, with him for ten years before returning in a whirlwind to assert custody. An inability to properly deal with grief prevented Hank from sharing memories of Hollie with Allie. The two were so alike that Hank had attempted to fit his well-rounded daughter into the complex hexagon of her mother. He had yet to learn that love never kept anyone alive. People keep love alive. Hollie and Allie share the ocean. Hank has no-one to share his memories.
Write to Ross at:
Texas Dept. of Criminal Justice
Ross Hartwell 1893452, Memorial Unit
PO Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266
Mongoose Distro 