Blocked

One of the fellows that I work with also writes and he suggested that we challenge ourselves to strengthen our writing skills. We chose this prompt from a writing exercise book I have had forever.

Feel free to participate, because the more the merrier, as we all know.

Prompt:
Depict a cemetery from the standpoint of a woman who, for the first time in ten years, visits her lover’s tombstone. Even if her emotions are strong, don’t express them in global terms “she was overcome with sorrow,” but show expressions of the emotion in what she sees, how she sees it—birds, plants, ants, other tombs, mourners.

James and I arbitrarily assigned a length of 500-1000 words.

So, my offering is behind the cut.

Be All My Sins Remember'd
Word count: 686

It was late afternoon and dusk threatened as I turned off the country lane onto the driveway. There were no other cars around, so I pulled up to the cemetery gate and parked on the rutted drive. I had intentionally planned the trip for dinner time, hoping that the graveyard would be empty. It was empty all right, actually, deserted was a better word, almost creepy, as the sun sank lower toward the horizon and shadows lengthened.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the gates, hastily drawn map in hand. I still had no idea what I was expecting from this visit. I had not seen Wade since the breakup over twelve years ago. We spoke on the phone, once, when I called to offer condolences after hearing that his father had died. I was in Europe at the time, working in Paris, and the overseas connection was terrible. We did not stay on the line very long. I do not know if Wade was comforted by the call, but I certainly was not. I had bad dreams that night, and a vague sense of unease remained with me for several days after. I decided there and then, to have no further contact with Wade Fletcher.

So, here I was, on the ten year anniversary of his death, breaking my own rule and visiting his grave in the middle of nowhere as twilight settled around me. Blackbirds perched on the branches of trees, staring at me as I passed. A lone squirrel scurried here and there searching for who knows what, oblivious to my presence. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves, sounding like snatches of a whispered conversation.

Wade’s grave was as far away from the gate as possible, in the oldest part of the cemetery. I wanted to get back to the car before full dark, so I picked up my pace a bit.

The Fletcher family had some of the most elaborate and expensive headstones I had ever seen. I guess in this part of the county, the bigger your grave marker, the more you were loved. I knew I was being snarky and disrespectful, but a long dormant anger had started to burn deep in my chest and continued to grow with each passing step. Winding back and forth between the statuary, I finally found Wade’s plot and knelt to place a single pink rose at the base of the angel that guarded his final resting place.

The statue stood a good six feet tall, wings spread, long curling ringlets resting on the shoulders of a flowing robe that covered all but the tips of the angel’s toes. He wielded a broadsword and his stony countenance suggested that if push comes to shove, he knew how to use it.

The epitaph on the gravestone was even more pretentious:

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

If there was any man on the planet less like the melancholy Dane, I would put my money on Wade Fletcher. There was nothing noble about Wade. He drank too much, was physically and mentally abusive and just plain mean of spirit. To this very day, I have no clue why I was unlucky enough to fall in love with him, or why I stayed as long as I did. However, that was all water under the bridge, and Wade was dead now. He could never hurt me again.

I stood and brushed grass clippings off the knees of my jeans and moved to sit on the stone bench near the pissed off looking angel. With the setting sun warm on my back, I turned my thoughts to the time Wade and I spent together, trying to uncover something, anything deep within that might allow me to mourn his passing. Try as I might, there was nothing. It was not like I was happy that Wade was dead, I just was not unhappy.

So, with a jaunty wave to the glowering angel, I stood and took my final leave of Wade Fletcher.