Candle lit gravekeeper
Early evenings always seemed to drag on insufferably. He wanted this to be done and over with already, 45 years of this thankless work. Wiping his already sweat-soaked brow he looked around at the crumbling stones, names long since illegible, angels missing arms or legs and cracked crosses decorated the graveyard in front of him.
Lowering himself down to the nearest grave, bones creaking the entire way down giving away his age. He brushed away the dust and dirt, pulling up the stray weeds that had popped up since his last visit. Grumbling to himself all the while. He moved slowly from grave to grave, repeating the monotonous work over.
He heaved himself back up to grab the ancient pushmower leaning against the tall oak tree that was beginning to take over the corner of the graveyard. He was moving slower while the sun continued to beat down on him, even as it was starting to sink below the trees. He was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf as he slowly circled around the graves.
As the sun finally sunk past the horizon he heaved a sigh of relief. Dragging himself back to the old oak tree; settled against it and closed his eyes. Feeling the dry, crunchy grass underneath him starting to disappear. Putting his hand up against the sky, he watched it turn back to that sickly ghost white.
"45 years!" He yelled over to the graves.
Silence.
He thought back to the day he died. Given the gravekeeper job, waiting every year for the anniversary of their deaths. Which anniversary would be the one? Where he could be forgiven? He ached to rest along with the rest of the dead, but it seemed it still wasn't his time. 46 years.
Lowering himself down to the nearest grave, bones creaking the entire way down giving away his age. He brushed away the dust and dirt, pulling up the stray weeds that had popped up since his last visit. Grumbling to himself all the while. He moved slowly from grave to grave, repeating the monotonous work over.
He heaved himself back up to grab the ancient pushmower leaning against the tall oak tree that was beginning to take over the corner of the graveyard. He was moving slower while the sun continued to beat down on him, even as it was starting to sink below the trees. He was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf as he slowly circled around the graves.
As the sun finally sunk past the horizon he heaved a sigh of relief. Dragging himself back to the old oak tree; settled against it and closed his eyes. Feeling the dry, crunchy grass underneath him starting to disappear. Putting his hand up against the sky, he watched it turn back to that sickly ghost white.
"45 years!" He yelled over to the graves.
Silence.
He thought back to the day he died. Given the gravekeeper job, waiting every year for the anniversary of their deaths. Which anniversary would be the one? Where he could be forgiven? He ached to rest along with the rest of the dead, but it seemed it still wasn't his time. 46 years.
Comments
Post a Comment