Also his hair, and patchy beard which had grown with his first death, was trimmed, combed, even damply oiled. The unruly curls that sprang up during his “sickness” were tucked behind his ears and glued to the sides of his head. He felt like a movie star, pampered and preened by stylists and makeup artists right before the big scene, before the iconic image is taken. He felt the presence of luxurious mahogany brush near the sides of his shoulders, the limits of his waist, and at the top and bottom of his head and feet. He felt the wood give him form, frame him, separate him from the world he used to feel so connected to when he lived in the house, on the wood floor of the sun room. Now he was set apart, finally. He was recognized, empowered, a real achievement. As he road steadily toward his grave hoisted above the shoulders of his relatives, his father's pride burst through the floor of the coffin, enough to support the coffin alone, really. And right then he couldn't help but feel as if he'd never looked so good. He imagined his portrait printed in multiple periodicals throughout the coming years of history, first in the obituaries then gradually in opinion columns and magazine retrospectives, the same image referred to again and again so it becomes engraved in the brains of families across the nation, engraved like the names of their pets buried in their backyards.
He was lowered into the grave with enthusiasm and covered quickly. Several feet above him something plopped eagerly into the ground with a thud like a single knock on his door. He listened closely as his friends and family left, one by one, he imagined, passing the other stones in the plentiful graveyard. The air was damp in the coffin, and he wondered how many pounds of mud separated him from his neighbors. He was not alone, for sure. Not only was he surrounded by others placed in the ground - he knew, for he felt the presence of other spirits, their names embossed on plaques accompanied by brief descriptions- but also by people, real, living people who passed by his grave.
The cemetery it turned out was always full of commotion. The earth between the coffin and the surface vibrated with energy from the people and the bodies, commiserating amongst the needless stones and caskets. The air was vibrant and fresh for the people above him, he imagined. They took him in as they passed, one by one, zealous to understand the story behind each and every tomb.
Brian J. Fischer, 1934-1997: May God Guide You Always. Kendall Baker Shaw, 1919-2003: Daughter - Wife - Mother - Leader. Howard Testfaye, 1902-1956: “Something there is that doesn't love a wall. That wants it down.” -Frost. Each stone was magnificent, consumable in one swallow.
Catherine Rosita Alejandra, 1928-2002: You gave so much / To your family, your friends / Your generous life / Led to happy ends. And the onlookers vigorously harnessed each person's story, each hardship and each triumph. He realized ironically there was more life in the cemetery than in his own house, when he was even free to move, free to think wondrous things for his future. But now he was dead and buried, but feeling more appreciated than ever, his life totalized by gazillions of patrons who shuffled keenly through the plot of land, filing through like circus show customers dazzled by the sheer spectacle of exhibits. View the snake with two heads! See a man crush cement with his skull! So much energy and exposure had never occurred in his life, and he was initially flustered, a boy again with a bare white chest, four years old and the center of the world.
But one night, his Mother visited him. He felt her looking ponderously at his grave, and he felt like explaining to her, don't worry, Mother, I'm more alive than ever. She stood for a few moments but then left. He was surprised at her abrupt departure so he tried to grab her to stay for awhile, maybe even fling a part of him at her, hoping to catch onto a piece of her clothing, maybe a lock of hair. And when she prepared herself for bed she would find him there with her. But he couldn't, the ceiling of the coffin was too tangible, and, even worse, the sides of the coffin wouldn't budge either. He tried sometimes at night, when the cemetery was very empty, to say hello to his neighbors. Even he screamed at them when he felt lonely or frustrated enough. On that night, after his mother had walked away and left him empty, he screamed the entire night. When people came the next day he felt introverted, and he tried extra hard to make an impact, to mingle, to experience the life in this cemetery with the tourists. But he could go no farther than the ground in front of him. Just before he could reach the heart of one of these strangers, they would look through the ground right into the very depth and truth of his soul and sum him up in one sentence or less. Or even worse, they would just simply read his plaque, maybe twice, three times if they were unsatisfied with their inconclusiveness, and then derive a meaning. Then they were done. They would draw from him some understanding, stabilize some generalization about him: He was a poor boy taken by a disease, He died happy with family nearby, He was not handsome. One of those. Then the next group of people would walk by and do the same thing, like picking up his stone, putting in their pocket and leaving with it.
It broke his heart. If only he wasn't caged by this casket, caked in makeup and stuck in a stiff suit he could leap right into the patrons. If it weren't for the walls, the packed dirt on all sides of him, he could interact with the other bodies, mingle and mix and have real conversations that sparked. But it wasn't the case. He was buried, and he could never live again. His Father was proud of his “completion,” and his Mother wasn't rightfully going to dig up his grave anytime soon.
He considered this as being his third relief, for now he knew he was truly dead. It didn't matter to him whether he still breathed or still felt. He could put a single impression in the minds of every person who passed by him, and yet, framed so neatly in his coffin, it was impossible for them to touch him in any way, in any shape or form. He felt truly deceased. And just before his final resignation, in a fit of nostalgia, he thought of the dust sifting over the floor of his house, the corner plant, the voices through the hall and every air particle, every sonic vibration connecting even the most disparate objects like a matrix of telephone wires into a holistic, ever-changing experience. And then he knew how lonely it was to forever mean something. And was dead.
And just before his final resignation, in a fit of nostalgia, he thought of the dust sifting over the floor of his house, the corner plant, the voices through the hall and every air particle, every sonic vibration connecting even the most disparate atoms like a network of cobwebs to conceives and fabricate a holistic, ever-changing experience.
