The Farm
He was waiting for me at the fence, hands in his pockets and legs crossed. The darkening sun shadowed the right side of his face underneath the ivy cap he was wearing, and the color made his jacket appear dark purple, which made me think of plums momentarily. I caught his eye, which immediately made all other extraneous thoughts disappear, as if he reached inside my brain and chastised me. He had a harrowing expression on his face that heavily contrasted his otherwise relaxed demeanor. His eyes looked to be sinking back into his soul, his entire body as still as a scarecrow to ward off birds. It was effective. I looked away.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
He continued to stare at me. A coolness spread through my body as a gust of wind gently blew on us, our respective jackets moving with it. I avoided eye contact with him and pulled my flannel around me.
“Let’s begin,” he responded.
He slowly backed into the wooden fence to open it into the farm, and promptly turned his back on me. Nighttime followed behind us, changing away the dregs of sunlight, as we walked along the white gravel path. He remained ahead of me, and I stared around at the open land. All of this space. The quiet. I never felt more hollow.
We approached the shed, a light windchime singing with the wind. I tried to keep my deep breaths silent, calming down the flow of my blood without making it obvious.
“I picked a spade for you,” he said while he pulled on a string light and illuminated the space. “It’s more sturdy than the last one, and should work better for you.” He showed me a long-handled tool with a pointed spade. The handle was dark green.
A flash of a broken shovel zipped in front of my eyes before I quickly swatted away the memory.
“Thank you,” I responded, and took it from him.
It came up to my waist, which I’ve learned is the perfect spade height. He took the shovel he always took, which was gray and deeper than my tool, and had a wooden handle. It was crusted with the dirt of the last thing he dug up, and I forced my thoughts to scatter as they excitedly tried to guess what it was. The chain dangling from the light clicked as he turned it off, and we were on our way.
The family plot couldn’t possibly hide itself in the flat landscape, but my heart still clenched when I noticed the gravestones, varying in height and width. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness that chased us, and finally caught up.
It was a quaint area of land, but one that clearly held several generations of this family. The air was heavy with souls.
Fresh dirt mounds lined the perimeter of the gravesite. With each mound rested a memory that my lower back could feel by just looking at it. I followed him through the dirt, until we came across the tiniest gravestone. We stood across from each other, the corpse buried below us.
“His name was Kristopher. He was 11,” he said.
I stared down at the mound.
We paused.
“He was my great-great-great uncle,” he continued. “And he’s rested here for a long time.”
I lifted my head and was brave enough to meet his eye. He picked up his shovel.
“Let’s begin.”