I run my fingers across the moss. It looks so soft yet it’s coarse around the dried and deadened edges, hardened as the moisture of life is sucked away. It’s delicate, yet it stubbornly grips onto anything it can to survive. It appears insignificant, yet everything has a role to play, however trivial it seems.
I crush the moss in my fingers. It binds together. I press down harder, rubbing it forcefully. It crumbles. I feel satisfaction as it turns to powdered dust in my hands. For once I have power over something, for I no longer hold any power over my own life. I throw the battered moss away and the breeze claims it, scattering it into the endless beyond.
I reach forward. The stone is cold under my fingers. I pick away at the moss that is inching every closer to the ‘D’ that is etched into the tombstone. The ‘AD’ has already disappeared beneath the spreading mass. One day it will claim the entire surface of the stone and the words underneath will be lost from view, where only those that remember you will recall what has been taken. I can’t yet let the rest of the world forget you.
I keep picking at the moss, breaking it from its thin tendrils that have delved into the tiny pores of the stone. Tears burn at my eyes. He hasn’t been gone that long. It’s too soon for the moss to claim him. One by one the letters are revealed. I rub the stone to clean it as much as I can. More tears fall. I let them go unabated.
I look at my hands. My fingernails are broken, the tips of my fingers raw. Dirt is caked underneath and I frantically try to clear it. Sobs catch in my throat. I gasp, unable to breathe. I collapse sideways upon the grass, consumed by the endless void of nothingness. My body convulses with each gasp of air and the tears form rivers down my checks. I scrunch my eyes closed, bringing upon the emptiness.
I lie upon the grass and let the pain course through me with an all-consuming intensity. I don’t try to stop it. I let it flood my senses completely, taking control of my mind and my body, letting it take me away from this place. But it never lasts. My body begins to calm, the sobs subside, the tears cease. I open my eyes, to the grass, to the moss, to the tombstone. I stay where I lie.
They are the only things alive out here. The moss and the grass. For I am not alive. I survive each day in numb disconnect. The world has so much pain and so much death. There is no happiness, only fear. For most it is the fear that today will be their last. For me, it’s fear that I will live to see tomorrow; that this torment will never end.
The Government lied. It always lies. They stood the day that the dictator fell and said that life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women, spring living nations. There is no living nation. Only war. My family is dead. They died for a country that no longer exists. They fought a battle believing that in the end we would be free.
My eyes look down the rows of stones. My parents, grandparents, brothers and cousins. The spreading moss and the dirt upon the stone, the only indication of how long I have lived alone. A warm tear again escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek into the grass. Stones in the ground and memories are all I have left. Fleeting thoughts of a time long shattered.
No life has been born from their deaths. They are just a number now, one of some many who have died to protect something that is already lost. My life, of stealth and rebellion, of fighting to keep the small part of our country that has yet to fall, is all I’ve ever known. Once upon a time I had family with me, but now it’s only me.
The wind stirs, calling my name.
“Lily” it whispers.
I ignore it and dig my fingers into the ground.
“Lily,” it calls again, louder.
It taunts me, a reminder that I am not dead.
“Lily, it’s time to leave.”
I ignore it still.
I feel the ground shift. There is something else alive in this cemetery. The warmth of your hand seeps into me as you place it on my shoulder. It’s an attempt at comfort, a way of drawing me back into the misery that is this life. Reminding me that I am alive and I am not alone.
You don’t say anything. I’m glad. I don’t need words of false hope. You know me too well for that. The tears start to fall anew. You always do this to me, bring me back to the world of the living, back to the nightmare reality that haunts each waking moment. I escape to this place whenever I can. In my fantasy imaginings it’s safe here and free and peaceful.
But it’s somewhere that I cannot yet go. You anchor me to the world. I fight each day for you, to be here with you.
I know why you’ve come. It’s time for us to go. Time for us to flee this place of misery and death. The war is lost. We knew this day would come. We tried but now it’s time to say my last goodbyes and leave this place forever. You stand up but I stay where I lie as a fresh wash of tears fall from my eyes. I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave them yet. The graves stands as the last visible reminder of the people who once filled my life. Without them they are just memory, written in my history but not within my future.
I feel your arms encircle me and I grab uselessly at the grass as you pull me to my feet. I struggled in your grasp but you’re stronger than me and you wrap me into your chest holding me protectively. I succumb to your embrace. You stroke my back as I sob out my final goodbyes, to the ones I’ve lost, to this battles futility, to the promised life never realised.
My suffering subsides and you loosen your grip but you still hold me comfortingly as I look back. I doubt that I will ever return here. The time to fight is over, the time to run has come. It is time to live. Tears burn my eyes and blur the world. I wipe them away only to reveal the endless symmetry of grave upon grave.