We Met in a Cemetery (9/19/09)

We met in a cemetery.

            I was alive, she was dead.

            I saw her name printed on the gravestone in front of me: Hannah Georgia Patterson. Aged 52 when she died, and the words on her headstone, “loving mother and dearest wife,” were the only things I knew about her.

            As with any grave.

            But what drew my attention to this particular gravestone, other than the beautiful, vivid flowers ensconced around the stone, was the weeping boy beside it.

            We met in a cemetery.

            We were both very much alive.

            As I walked down the dirt path through the cemetery that day, I felt a sense of calm and peace that I knew I needed. Life can get that way sometimes—stressful, evoking your blood to its boiling point, pushing you to your limit—and the cemetery counteracts that for me.

            I breathed in the sweet air; some fragrant flower happened to be at its best, and the sun shined just right through the leaves of the trees, as if they were stained glass.

            The green glow of leaves gleamed down upon the boy as I approached.

The first thing I liked about him was the way he didn’t try to hide his tears from me, although I was a complete stranger. The second was the ingenious way he had laid out the flowers. They were patterned blue, lavender, yellow, pink, and stacked so they formed a sort of topless pyramid around the base of the stone.

I don’t know why I sat down by him. Most times, I would leave someone to honor their loved ones in peace. But I sat down, right there in the grass next to him, and that was that.

And, before either of us had said anything, I started to cry, too.

It’s a funny thing, when you cry alongside someone. You both share a feeling of deep sorrow, emotion, compassion. To cry with someone is to let them see into your heart, into your feelings, your mind. Nothing is hidden, you just cry.

After awhile, he told me his name was Nolen Patterson.

It was his mother who was buried there. She had died of cancer two months ago. He missed her very much.

He told me she was a great mother. She always put him and his brothers first. She packed their lunches, told them stories, helped them with homework, watched them grow up. She enjoyed traveling, rain walks, the ocean, wildlife, and painting.

And this is the first connection I felt to her. Painting.

I studied the grave with great consideration, then reached into my bag.

The paints emerged: brown, black, gold, indigo, crimson, emerald. They squeezed onto my palette and expanded at the tip of my wet brush. Onto the paper they washed, the vibrant colors, calmly painting the flowers, the stone, the words…

We all came from different angles of humanity, different times, different planes of existence even. And we met here, turned to the same page, and developed an understanding so simply complex, it was almost surreal.

We met in a cemetery.

           

Boxes (1/11/11)

Humans live in boxes. Tall, wide boring, mathematical boxes. Created for shelter, designed with perfection. Boxes. Towering over us, boxes fall, boxes fail. They aren’t supposed to. Humans think in boxes. Square roots, prime numbers, fact, fact, fact; repeat, repeat, repeat. Boxes are by force. Boxes confine. Humans lock themselves in and hide away the key in a box as well. Only the brightest can overcome the box, unearth the key. Boxes make us smart. Boxes make us money.

But boxes don’t

Let us live.

The Photographer (creative writing class exercise, or an attempt at comedy)

          It’s 2am. I find myself sitting at a table topped with a frilly white table cloth, royal blue napkins, and a plate of some monstrous-looking part of a sea creature drenched in red sauce that I tentatively poke with my fork to make sure it’s not alive.

            “Really, I only need the salad,” I say to the waiter dressed in a white, official-looking uniform.

            He stares at me in disgust. “It only comes with an entrée. This is your entrée,” he spits and walks away.

            I can understand his annoyance. First, I arranged to come in after hours to take photos for the magazine I work for, Bon Appetit.

            Secondly, I feel like I should be wearing a tux. I’m not. I’m wearing my pajamas. You see, I forgot about my assignment until I woke up around midnight from a dream in which a herd of cows surrounded me chanting “meat, meat, meat,” which reminded me of burgers, which reminded me of food, which reminded me of this restaurant, which reminded me that my photos are due tomorrow or I am screwed.

            So, poor Louis, or Jacques or whatever the snobby guy’s name is had to come into work and wait on me at 2am.

            I wonder if the cook purposely made my food look like rats’ guts. I’ll have to get his name and put it in the caption alongside my photos: “Chef Frenchy Français specializes in the French delicacy, roasted rats’ guts. Reviewer’s call: tastes like chicken.”

            I push the delectable dish to the side and wait for my dinner salad. From a table nearby, I see Jacques glaring at me. Tough tuna, man. I am not eating whatever is on the plate.

            To pass the time (and to keep myself from falling asleep), I closely examine the dinosaur pattern on my pajama pants. My mom bought them for me as a joke last Christmas. I wonder what my girlfriend would think if she saw me out in public with these bad boys.

            “Do these make you…more attracted to me?” I try saying suavely. You know, just for practice.

            “Yes. Yes, they do,” I hear a soft reply from across the room. A soft, manly reply.

            I swivel around in my chair to see Jacques, or whatever his name is, has paused with his table cleaning and is staring wistfully at me.

            I force a smile onto my face, wave, then turn around. My palms are sweaty and I can feel my face reddening. I want out. Now. But I am trapped here until my dinner salad comes. I need a picture of it. I need one! Be strong. Here comes Jacques! Pretend to be busy!

            I frantically pick up my napkin and begin to blow my nose excessively.

            “Your dinner salad, sir,” Jacques says, setting my food down in front of me. “Let me get you a new napkin.”

            What came over him? I thought he hated me, now he’s…he’s…practically offering me gifts of love and adoration!

            HE’S HITTING ON ME!

            “You know what? That’s all right,” I say, snapping a quick photo of the salad. “This is all I need, I’ll be leaving now.”

            Jacques suddenly looks scared. “You…you…don’t like the food?” he almost whispers.

            “No, no!” I say hastily. “The food is…great! I just have to get going…”

            “You don’t like the food?!” he asks again, raising his voice.

            “No, no, it’s—”

            “YOU DON’T LIKE THE FOOD!” he yells, racing into the kitchen. “HE DOESN’T LIKE THE FOOD!”

            I stand by the table feeling like I am going to wet myself.

            Suddenly, a large, middle-aged man bursts through the kitchen doors, sobbing. Frenchy. The cook.

            “I quit!” he cries in a thick French accent. “I quit, I quit, I QUIT!”

            I tremble as he approaches me, looming over me with his large meat cleaver.

            “Don’t kill me!” I squeak in a high-pitched voice.

            “I’m not going to kill you,” he roars. “I’m going to kill MYSELF!” He holds the knife to his throat.

            “NO!” I cry, launching myself toward him. We struggle for possession of the knife, and it flies into the air.

            Just as Jacques emerges from the kitchen.

            The knife lands in Jacques’s gut, and he collapses.

            “Jacques!” Frenchy and I shout.

            We race over to him. Frenchy examines the knife wound and I cradle Jacques’ head in my arms.

            “Jacques! Speak to me!” I cry.

            “I’m…I’m sorry I was mean to you,” he struggles to say. “You…you just meant so much…” he tries to finish but the pain is too much.

            As the life fades from his sparkling eyes, I realize what would make him happy. I know the one last wish he would want before he dies.

            I draw in a deep breath, close my eyes, and give him a big, wet, mouth-to-mouth kiss. I can taste the blood on his tongue as well as a bit of sweet something he must have eaten just moments before. Mmm, cinnamon…

            I lift my head, gasping for air, realizing I am crying.

            I look up and scream into the heavens, “WHY?!?!?!”

            “Listen! He speaks again!” says Frenchy, who is kneeling beside me, shocked.

            I lean close to Jacques. “What is it?” I ask.

            “I meant to say…” he whispers, “that you just meant so much…to the restaurant.”

            “What?” I ask, confused.

            “The restaurant,” he repeats. “I was only nice to you because we need a good review.”

            With that, all signs of life leave his body, and he is still.

            Frenchy stands, avoiding eye contact with me. “The bill’s on the table,” he mutters, returning to the kitchen.

            Still sitting on the floor with Jacques in my arms, I look upward once again and cry, “WHY?!?!?!”