They Know Me

CHANGES

"They're dead ... and it's my fault," I whispered to myself.

I'd been inside of the cemetery only once, days before. I hadn't wanted to go back, but since the day of the funeral, I hadn't been able to sleep. Going back to where I'd left them, covered by dirt, shut away in their caskets, might change that. I'd say what I had to and hope it would be enough as I left them behind again to continue on in their death as I would in my life.

At the wrought-iron gate that all cemeteries seemed to have in common, I paused to gaze in, a trespasser in their world, that of the dead. Everything, from the light fog that hovered just above the ground, to the shroud-like trees, enormous and misshapen, hiding perfectly what kept to the shadows, seemed different, changed from before. But then, they'd been buried in the daytime – and I hadn't been alone.

If given the choice, I'd leave – but I couldn't. I had to go ... I had a confession and it wouldn't wait – because the longer I waited, the longer they waited, and all of us had done that long enough.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I entered the graveyard through the broken, half-hinged gate, and started walking as if I knew exactly where I was headed. Soon I found myself surrounded by a fog grown thicker, and scarier, that covered the ground like a huge white sheet, making knowing where my step would be almost impossible. Moving through each darker shadow of each tall oak tree as I entered it, to a lighter shade of darkness as I emerged, I pushed aside the long tendrils of Spanish moss hanging in drapes from their branches, trying not to notice how much they looked like whitish-gray specters, eerie in that setting, especially with their subtle swaying in the nearly windless space. But, as spooky as the place was, it was the complete noiselessness of my footsteps that was the most frightening.

Still, I kept going. I didn't question the direction ... I'd trust my instincts.

Eventually I could see it ahead of me ... the spot where they'd been buried. I slowed as I approached it. Someone had dug a deep hole in the ground, an ugly scar in the lawn, and the two raised brown caskets rested side by side on a tall lift above it. It didn't seem odd, though. I knew they'd be there.

I gazed at them, the last beds my parents would ever know, partly in morbid fascination, but mostly with a sick sort of curiosity. They seemed to be waiting, either for me, or for their final descent into the earth, I couldn't be sure. I roughly swiped at the tears that started down my cheeks. I hated myself. Their death was my fault, and I'd gone there to tell them that. I wanted to scream, for their sake, and mine, that I loved them, and more than ever I wished things were different. But I was a coward and continued to stare wordlessly at them.

Finally, impatient with myself, I closed my eyes and tried to force myself to say something in the remaining moments I had left before they were lowered ... everything, my wishes and my guilt ... and then goodbye. My mouth opened ... but I didn't have the words. It was too much. I paused, and then started again in a whispered plea, "I'd willingly trade places with you, my self-imposed penance, if it meant you'd both come back and be whole again, not dead, but alive –"

A wind started, bringing with it a strange noise. I stopped to listen. Faint at first, I could swear ... voices – their voices, accusing me, "Ashe, you should've stopped us."

Faster, my tears spilled. Involuntary thoughts ... how gruesome a scene it must have been, and how terrifying, to have seen the truck as it came at them, and how much more frightened they'd be if they could see as they were being lowered into the ground and dirt fell down onto them. Overwhelmed, and feeling like I was dying inside, I slowly opened my eyes, and screamed as the lids flew open and my parents sat up and reached for me, crying out, "Stay!"