the start of another story
I miss writing. While looking over old files, I came across this unfinished piece. Will finish it soon.
*****
The earth seemed alive. With pipes jutting out of the ground spouting water from the nearby manmade lake, the grass was sodden, soggy. The day was crisp and fresh, the way the world looks—much clearer after a good cry. It seemed as though the night had unburdened itself of a heaving, hiccupping sob. The stagnant smell of the lake water gave an air of emanating staleness from the ground. But the sky was clear, high above reach. The sun scattered itself among the blades of grass, obliging drops of water with its image, creating sparkles of little suns among the shades of green and faded brown. It was maintenance day at the cemetery.
The grass in some plots looked quite healthy and well-taken care of. Inventive gardeners created little relief grass hearts and crosses that decorated certain plots. Still other plots looked sinewy with neglect, overrun with weeds, stone markers with peeling paint. One could hardly read what was written about the people that rested beneath. I searched for the maintained markers. Rare were those with descriptions or testimonials of the deceased. One would normally just see some redemptive Bible verse inscribed on the stone. In death we seem to try to escape the words and labels that haunt us while still alive. My grandfather didn’t have anything written on his, other than his name, dates of birth and death. Despite his notoriety, my grandmother never really had much to say about him.
1993 was the year he passed away, leaving 2 grieving families—2 widows, 13 children who begrudgingly acknowledged each other, and 21 bewildered grandchildren. The 4 children from the “other” family stood behind the other mourners during the funeral, keeping to themselves. Though much younger than the first family, they were old enough to look around with wary eyes, knowing that their presence pained and angered those around them, through no fault of their own. Yet the circumstances of their family and childhood left them fairly content with bits and pieces. They never felt the need to press the issue of entitlement. They meekly stood in place, holding their ground as grandfather’s children, whether or not other people understood. No one was outwardly hostile towards them. Passive aggressive would be the right description of the atmosphere, hostility and mourning drawing the veritable shroud that wrapped the solemn funeral rites. Though they were relatively ignored, they were whispered about by the veiled women who covered their mouths with lacy fans that proved useless in filtering the stories circulated by some of my other more spiteful uncles. My mother’s siblings apparently haven’t gotten over the fact that their already strained household was actually a lot worse than it had seemed.
My mother motioned that we would start praying the rosary. Standing beside my brother, we stood behind mother as she led in the prayer ritual, repeating each worship, and we answering with the cued petition. I always thought the dynamic of this prayer relied on persistence, the way a child gets his or her way after bombarding a parent with the same relentless request. Of course, the worship would be more of some form of flattery, the type we use to butter up our parents first before making our plaintive requests known.
*oww*
My brother has a habit of flicking me at the most inopportune moments.
With a face as solemn as the petition that escaped my lips, I returned my brother’s flicking with a vengeance. My mother, unaware of the goings-on behind her, continued the prayer. There we stood, a triumvirate against the backdrop of sky and soggy ground.
*****
The earth seemed alive. With pipes jutting out of the ground spouting water from the nearby manmade lake, the grass was sodden, soggy. The day was crisp and fresh, the way the world looks—much clearer after a good cry. It seemed as though the night had unburdened itself of a heaving, hiccupping sob. The stagnant smell of the lake water gave an air of emanating staleness from the ground. But the sky was clear, high above reach. The sun scattered itself among the blades of grass, obliging drops of water with its image, creating sparkles of little suns among the shades of green and faded brown. It was maintenance day at the cemetery.
The grass in some plots looked quite healthy and well-taken care of. Inventive gardeners created little relief grass hearts and crosses that decorated certain plots. Still other plots looked sinewy with neglect, overrun with weeds, stone markers with peeling paint. One could hardly read what was written about the people that rested beneath. I searched for the maintained markers. Rare were those with descriptions or testimonials of the deceased. One would normally just see some redemptive Bible verse inscribed on the stone. In death we seem to try to escape the words and labels that haunt us while still alive. My grandfather didn’t have anything written on his, other than his name, dates of birth and death. Despite his notoriety, my grandmother never really had much to say about him.
1993 was the year he passed away, leaving 2 grieving families—2 widows, 13 children who begrudgingly acknowledged each other, and 21 bewildered grandchildren. The 4 children from the “other” family stood behind the other mourners during the funeral, keeping to themselves. Though much younger than the first family, they were old enough to look around with wary eyes, knowing that their presence pained and angered those around them, through no fault of their own. Yet the circumstances of their family and childhood left them fairly content with bits and pieces. They never felt the need to press the issue of entitlement. They meekly stood in place, holding their ground as grandfather’s children, whether or not other people understood. No one was outwardly hostile towards them. Passive aggressive would be the right description of the atmosphere, hostility and mourning drawing the veritable shroud that wrapped the solemn funeral rites. Though they were relatively ignored, they were whispered about by the veiled women who covered their mouths with lacy fans that proved useless in filtering the stories circulated by some of my other more spiteful uncles. My mother’s siblings apparently haven’t gotten over the fact that their already strained household was actually a lot worse than it had seemed.
My mother motioned that we would start praying the rosary. Standing beside my brother, we stood behind mother as she led in the prayer ritual, repeating each worship, and we answering with the cued petition. I always thought the dynamic of this prayer relied on persistence, the way a child gets his or her way after bombarding a parent with the same relentless request. Of course, the worship would be more of some form of flattery, the type we use to butter up our parents first before making our plaintive requests known.
*oww*
My brother has a habit of flicking me at the most inopportune moments.
With a face as solemn as the petition that escaped my lips, I returned my brother’s flicking with a vengeance. My mother, unaware of the goings-on behind her, continued the prayer. There we stood, a triumvirate against the backdrop of sky and soggy ground.
posted by Yellowbug | 3:28 PM
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