The Caretaker
The weathered caretaker tapped his worn spade on the oblong mound of pebbled damp dirt, then stepped back, admiring his work.
This part of his profession he hated the most; much preferring the pruning of the trees and the gardening of the flower beds. It was easier than digging down six feet, which he never did. Under his watch, most graves only went four feet. Tipping his woolen cap from his bushy graying-haired head, he said a silent prayer for the now laid-to-rest. All alone. No mourners shedding tears. No mourners speaking of better times. No mourners bidding farewell to the recently departed Frederick Crown.
This part of his profession he hated the most; much preferring the pruning of the trees and the gardening of the flower beds. It was easier than digging down six feet, which he never did. Under his watch, most graves only went four feet. Tipping his woolen cap from his bushy graying-haired head, he said a silent prayer for the now laid-to-rest. All alone. No mourners shedding tears. No mourners speaking of better times. No mourners bidding farewell to the recently departed Frederick Crown.
A November wind rustled the fallen decaying leaves. It fluttered and tickled those still clinging to the last; harassing them into letting go, only to learn that they fought back until they were ready. Darkness crept over the clear sky like a black canopy, soon sliced by a Cheshire grinned moon and a thousand pinpoints of starlight.
The caretaker buttoned up his patched linen waistcoat, careful of the sore calluses earned from not wearing work gloves. He slipped on his dusty jacket and pulled a stained handkerchief from its pocket and patted his sweaty brow. Calling it a day, he started for his snug hearth at home, where his wife would ask if it was a scarce or full service. If it was scarce, she would cross herself, asking for forgiveness for the deceased sins, then serve the caretaker his meager stew of mutton, carrots, and potatoes.
The caretaker buttoned up his patched linen waistcoat, careful of the sore calluses earned from not wearing work gloves. He slipped on his dusty jacket and pulled a stained handkerchief from its pocket and patted his sweaty brow. Calling it a day, he started for his snug hearth at home, where his wife would ask if it was a scarce or full service. If it was scarce, she would cross herself, asking for forgiveness for the deceased sins, then serve the caretaker his meager stew of mutton, carrots, and potatoes.
At the churchyard gate, the caretaker felt its cold wrought metal on his bare hand, he paused, and lent his ear to the wind. Asking "Hmmm... What was that?" Was it a mouse in the brush? A dangling tree limb, scratching the top of a headstone, the one with the embossed skull? Or the one with the weeping willow? Were Heaven’s angels discussing their day’s work of showing wandering souls the way towards the light?
But he heard nothing. He saw nothing, only the fresh grave of Frederick Crown among the sea of others. Nothing moved except for the leaves at the mercy of the blustery wind. The caretaker shrugged his shoulders, and with focused strength, pulled the iron gate closed. Its hinges squeaking under its own weight. He made a mental note to bring the oil can tomorrow.
But he heard nothing. He saw nothing, only the fresh grave of Frederick Crown among the sea of others. Nothing moved except for the leaves at the mercy of the blustery wind. The caretaker shrugged his shoulders, and with focused strength, pulled the iron gate closed. Its hinges squeaking under its own weight. He made a mental note to bring the oil can tomorrow.
The graveyard stood alone, silent like the night before. With its new resident, Frederick Crown, now four feet underground. Soon the wooden cross would give way to a slate with his full name and birth and death dates.
However, had the caretaker stopped to listen, that on the air, almost barely there, but there none the less, echoed a lone repeated word. So faint. So low. A solitary word. Over and over. “Alive.”
And if the caretaker had strayed back or even lingered, he might have heard the scraping and clawing of the bloody fingertips of Frederick Crown, digging into the pine board of his casket lid, flailing and skidding from side to side. Begging and pleading. “Alive.”
CSM
However, had the caretaker stopped to listen, that on the air, almost barely there, but there none the less, echoed a lone repeated word. So faint. So low. A solitary word. Over and over. “Alive.”
And if the caretaker had strayed back or even lingered, he might have heard the scraping and clawing of the bloody fingertips of Frederick Crown, digging into the pine board of his casket lid, flailing and skidding from side to side. Begging and pleading. “Alive.”
CSM
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