Letters...

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There's this photograph I just can't get out of my mind, no matter how hard I try. A little girl in a flowered dresses screaming in the dark. Blood everywhere: on her cheeks, on her dress, in splattered droplets on the ground. A gun is pointed at the dirt road beside her, and you can't see the man, but you can see his boots. You showed it to me years ago, telling me about the photographer who got the shot, but all u remember is the screan and the flowers and the gun.
Her parents took a wrong a turn or something. In a war zone, maybe. Was it Iraq? I think it was Iraq. It's been a while and I'm fuzzy on the history of it. They took a wrong turn, and some spooked soldiers started firing at the car. Her parents were killed instantly.

The little girl was lucky.

Unlucky?

I don't know.

At first you see the horror as it is so perfectly etched on the girl's eyes. Then you see the details. The blood. The flowers. The gun. The boots.
Some of your photographs are equally gripping. I should be thinking if your work. It seems wrong to be leaning against your headstone and thinking of someone else's talent.

I can't help it.

You can see it on her face. Her reality is being ripped away, and she knows it.
Her mother is gone, and she knows it.
The agony in that picture.

Every time I look at it, I think, "I know exactly how she feels."

I need to stop staring at this letter.
I only picked ho the envelope because we are supposed to clean up any personal stuff in front of the gravestones before we mow. I usually take my time because eight hours is eight hours, and it's not like I'm getting paid for this.

My grease-stained fingers have left marks along the edges of the paper. I should throw it away before anyone knows I touched it.

My eyes, they keep tracing the pen strokes. The handwriting is nef and even but not perfect. At first I can't figure out what's holding my focus, but then it becomes clear: a shaky hand wrote these words. A girl's hand, I can tell. The letters are rounded just enough.

I glance at the headstone. It's newish. Crisp letters are carved into shiny granite. Zoe Rebecca Thorne. Beloved wife and mother.
The date of death hits hard. May twenty-fith of this year. The same day I swallowed an entire bottle of whiskey and drove my fathers Range Rover into an empty office building.
Funny how the date is etched into my brain, but it's etched into someone else's for something entirely different.
Thorne. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. She's only been dead a few months, and she was forty-five, so maybe it was in the news.

I bet that got more press.

"Hey Sawdust! What gives, man?"
I jump and drop the letter. Melonhead, my 'supervisor', is standing at the crest of the hill, wiping a sweat-soaked handkerchief across his brow.

His last name isn't really Melonhead, any more that mine is Sawdust. But if he's going to take liberties with Saunders, I'm going to do the same with Melendez.

Only difference is that I don't say it to his face.

"Sorry." I call. I stoop to pick the letter up.

"I thought you were going to finish mowing this section."

"I will."

"If you don't, then I've gotta. I want to get to get home, kid."

He always wants to get home. He has a little girl. She's three and completely obsessed with Disney Princesses. She knows all her letters and numbers already. She had a birthday party last weekend with fifteen kids from her preschool class, and Melonhead's wife made a cake.

I don't give a crap about any of this, of course. I just can't get this guy to keep his mouth shut. There's a reason I said I'd handle this section alone.

"I know," I say. "I'll do it."

"You don't do it, I'm not signing your sheet for today."

I bristle and remind myself that being a dick isn't going to get me anywhere except being reported to the judge. And she hates me. "I said I'd do it."
He waves a hand dismissively and turns back, heading down the opposite side of the hill.

He thinks I'm going to screw him over. Maybe the last guy did, I don't know.

After a moment I hear his mower kick on.

I should probably finish clearing the mementos so I can get in my mower, but I don't. The September sun dumps head on the cemetery, and I have to shove damp hair off my forehead
You'd think we were in the Deep South instead of Annapplis, Maryland. Melonhead's bandana almost seemed like a cliché, but now I'm envying him.

I hate this.

I should ne grateful for the community service, I know. I'm seventeen l, and for a while it looked like they were going to charge me as an adult - but it's not like I killed anyone. Only property damage. And lawn maintenance in a cemetery isn't exactly a death sentence, even if I'm surrounded in it.

I still hate this. I say I don't care what people think of me, but that's a lie. You'd care, too, if everyone thought you were nothing more than a screw up. We're only a few weeks into the school year, but half of my teacher are probably counting the minutes until I start shooting up the place. I can already imagine my senior portrait in the yearbook. Liam Saunders: Most likely to commit a felony.

It would be hilarious if it weren't so depressing.

I read the letter again. Pain flares in every word. The kind of pain that makes you write letters to someone who will never read them. The kind if pain that isolates. The kind of pain you are certain no one else has ever felt, ever.

My eyes linger in the last lines.
You can see it on her face. Her reality is being ripped away, and she knows it.
Her mother is gone, and she knows it.
The agony in that picture.
Every time I look at it, I think, "I know exactly how she feels."

Without thinking about it, I fush a hubby pencil out of my pocket, and I press it to the paper.
Just below the girl's shaky script, I add two words of my own.