He knows she is buried here somewhere, so we look.

There are no marble headstones or lavish monuments. The only way to identify the people who lie here is by reading the name and date on a square granite stone buried in the ground. A task made even more intimate because of the grass that has grown up and over the rows and rows of graves. Even in death, the poor are forgotten and helpless, have only what other people will allow them, and lack the ability to be heard. Now, all they ask for is a lawn mower.

It's past midnight and I feel exposed. The flashlights cast ghostly shadows across the yard and the light wind seems to pass through my skin and bite my spine. A tree bends in the darkness, losing leaves to the breeze and speaking through a rustle of branches and fluttering twigs. The dead are beneath me but they feel above me, almost like they are watching.

My friend moves faster than I do. He is determined; this is his hunt. Just an hour ago we were celebrating his birthday. He asked, and then begged, for me to come out here with him. He's been here once before, a long time ago, and doesn't want to go back alone.

So, I agreed to meet his mother.

She died crossing the street when he was four years old. Killed instantly by a semi truck. Everyone says it was her fault, and it probably was. Really, it doesn't even matter. She had no husband or family to care, and nobody listens to four year old boys.

Finally, he calls me over.

"This is her," he says.

A name: Mary, and a date. She was twenty-four when she died.

An hour past midnight, his 25th birthday just behind him, he says, "I made it."

I think it was relief. I didn't ask. And I'm not sure what exactly it was he was looking for. But I do think he found it, and I'm happy for that.

 

© t.j. couch