Poems and Other Stuff {including plot bunnies}

Chapter One 'A Spiral Void of Chaos' part 2

That's really when my memory gets fuzzy. Blackness, is what fills my mind.

___

Everyone was still sitting, still eating, still here. I couldn't take it anymore. The room filled with these little sounds was maddening. I forcefully stood up from the table causing all attention to be focused on me. "Excuse me." I stuttered as I maneuvered around the chair and headed slowly towards the backdoor. My feet felt like weights holding me down, I knew I had to bare with it and get away from here.

"Chris where are you going?" My father's cool and gruff voice asked. I stopped right in place and shoved my hands into my pockets, letting them feel the nice warm wool. I let out a quick breath as the room was completely silent. "Where I always go." I replied as I took another hard step forward. I pushed open the door to the backyard of our small suburban house. The strong and cool wind blew into me as I shut the door. I stared out at the sky for a second. The dull grey clouds filled the sky preventing light to pour through.

I walked quickly down the 5 steps to the dead lawn. Every little thing moved and with that movement came a distinct noise. I have memorized each one. I could hear the crunch of the dead grass under my feet as I made my way across the lawn towards the gate. My house sat on the corner of Cherry Lane and Washington Avenue, which were very small roads that lead to nowhere. As always they were empty, this was a very small town. I pushed open the gate and then I closed it. I began to walk east down Cherry road, towards the cemetery.

Most people avoid the cemetery, it was natural of them. Death was something no one really wanted to think about. No one wants it; it is the true meaning of fear. Most media gives you the thought of a cemetery as a dark place full of whispers and souls. Truly it's just a quiet space, full of people. Nothing more, nothing less. It made me very angry every time I saw something or read something with the false details about a graveyard or cemetery. The gothic angel statues above the graves, the small groups of flowers that spotted the ground. The idea that people are under the ground, that they are completely still, quiet in a small box.

I took a turn through the gate into the cemetery itself. I followed the large path, big enough for a car as I walked towards my familiar tree. I kept my pace descent as I climbed the hill that lead to the tree. The wind had a distinct whistle today, it was high and quick. It sounded like a cardinal and a sparrow chirping at the same time. Each step I took was smooth and slow, my hands stayed shoved in the pockets as I climbed the hill. Little tombstones, big tombstones, flat tombstones, shared tombstones. I've seen it all, I knew each kind. I knew this graveyard like the back of my hand. It was my haven, my way to relax, to focus on myself.

Seconds pasted, moments washed away, though here I am. I walked under the dark shadows of the tree staring down at three tombstones. They were very plain and nice. I had helped picked them out myself of course only helping their parents. The Flowers around them were whithered and dead, brown roses. I bent down picking up the roses that laid in front of those graves. James Michael Lawrence, Monica Elizabeth Johnson, and Anne Rebecca Wallace it stated their names very clearly. Below each of them was a quote.

James Michael Lawrence

April 30th, 1987 - October 10th, 2005

'People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad. ~Marcel Proust'

Monica Elizabeth Johnson

June 14th, 1982 - October 10th, 2005

 'Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life. ~Albert Einstein'