5 October 2012
Word Count: 967
The cemetery looked as picturesque in the fall as it did in the spring, though Paris thought this time of year suited it better, not because everything around him was dying, falling to join the dead who already filled the grounds, but because the newness of the year had worn off and the mood of the current season lent a more somber but still decidedly sacred atmosphere to a place that was surely deserving of the reverence.
The weather had only recently begun to change and so the vibrant colors just touching the leaves had not yet reached their peak, but they were there on the fringes, reds and oranges and yellows seeping in to make their brilliance known. In as little as a couple of weeks it was likely that the change would be complete. Then the cemetery would be on fire, as bight from its trees in the fall as it was by its flowers in the spring, only the fields of crimson and gold would, to Paris, serve as a more comforting backdrop.
Spring was too cruelly sweet to be so welcoming.
Paris brought his scooter to a stop near the back of the parking lot, as he both dreaded and anticipated the walk ahead of him—the former because of what laid at the end of it, the latter for the same. He took his time removing his helmet and riding gloves, carefully placing each into the compartment beneath the seat, pocketing his keys and shaking out his long hair until he was satisfied with the results of the process. Checking himself, his scooter, and his surroundings a final time proved to be fruitless, as he could find no other distraction, could dredge up no means to stall any longer.
There was nothing else to do but walk.
He took the long way around, wandering the deserted paths, examining the trees, the scenery, the blue of the sky and the fading green of the grass, staring out over the grounds at the tiny shapes of headstones, some weathered by age, and the larger tributes to those wealthy enough to afford them, the statues and the mausoleum that seemed to him imposing in their exclusivity. He saw few other people, just a smattering here and there, small groups or singular individuals, never too many at one time. They all wanted their moment with the dead, the solitude to reflect and perhaps find a shred of peace in an old or recent passing.
But he saw evidence that many had come, not all at once but scattered over the course of the week. Some graves were better tended than others, with flowers and other offerings to show that someone somewhere kept them in their thoughts.
Paris was notably empty-handed, but then he could think of no gift suitable enough to bring.
His father’s grave was on the far side of the cemetery, alone in a plot of well-tended grass, some yards away from strangers and not yet joined by family. As he approached, Paris could see a bouquet of red roses already set by the stone, left by his mother, surely, when she’d made the trip that morning. Paris might have gone with her on another occasion. He had before, on Father’s Day, as he’d never had the compulsion to visit on his own. He’d needed the support, wanted the company, despite how difficult it often was for him to share his grief, to articulate what he felt and how he thought, and accept comfort as it was given to him. He’d never had any desire to face it alone.
Not until today, at least.
He and his father had celebrated birthdays the same as they’d celebrated Father’s Day, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or any other noteworthy occasion that might have been recognized when Paris’s mother had lived with them—that was to say they hardly acknowledged them at all. The most Paris had ever received from his father on his birthday was a particular look, a slight twitch of the brow and a narrowing of the eye amidst a strained silence. That was all. No presents, no cake, no candles to make a wish upon, just that moment when their eyes met and each knew what the other was thinking but neither wished to vocalize it.
Paris gave that same look to the stone that bore his father’s name when he finally veered off the path and came to a stop before it, staring down at the letters and numbers that showed that his father had once been alive, had once existed as more than a pot of ash in the ground.
“Hey, old man,” he said. His voice was not loud but neither was it too soft to be heard, steady and clear as if his father were right in front of him, and they could talk as they’d never had the opportunity to in life.
The wind rustled through the trees, carrying a couple of leaves off to land somewhere in the grass, and the strands of hair that brushed against Paris’s cheek could have been the gentle press of fingers if he closed his eyes and let himself believe.
Slowly he sank to his knees on the grass, and from his knees he gingerly stretched out onto his stomach. He pressed his cheek to the cool stone, one hand tracing the edge of it while the other plucked absentmindedly at the grass. When he inhaled he could smell the roses, the dirt, the clear sky, and when he finally did close his eyes those were all that remained of the world. He laid still and quiet, the only sound the wind and his slow, even breathing.
“Ne me quitte pas,” he whispered.
Had his father listened, he would have been forty-seven.
