I couldn’t think. The silence of the library was louder than sitting in a busy restaurant. Clinking crystal and the pitch of metal utensils scraping until I shivered were better than huffing stacks of literature into their place. The hands of the clock teased. My stomach crawled into my ribcage to gnaw on my spinal cord. I swear, if I don’t leave soon, I’ll become one with the horror section and Hannibal will become a close friend.
Two minutes. Ducking behind the history aisle, I left the book pulled slightly forward, ready to be opened in my lap when I returned. “There you are,” I whispered and smirked before snaking my way to the break room and grabbing my purse.
My temporary purgatory finally released me into the wild. The back doors were already open, and I burst through them hard enough to send them crashing against the brick. Maybe it echoed a little. Maybe that thrilled me.
Drooling over the scent of chili hot dogs in a flimsy brown bag, with light on my skin at last—and this type of silence? The rush of gusting foliage and the rustling wings of birds. The halfway mark of a long day with the goal of a paycheck. This moment, and the finality of kicking my shoes off at home to put my feet up, gave my life purpose. Less hustle, more freedom to watch familiar faces; weathered pages.
I pulled the first chili dog from the bag and added the relish, squinting toward the first course. The man and his son were always on time. My little bench in the cemetery courtyard allowed me to listen and catch up on their lives. Circled by trees blooming with autumn hues, it was the father’s custom to pull the boy from lunch at school. His mother’s name was Caroline Sathavin, but her son? I knew him only as “Bug”—the nickname his father gave him. Bug and Dad had spent the last four years faithfully having lunch with Caroline. Dad had gone on a couple of dates, but until today, Bug hadn’t liked any of them.
The boy sighed, and I guessed him to be around fourteen now. He was in that bizarre stage of figuring out who he was as a person, going from curly blond hair to longer strands with black tips. He had to brush the mess from his eyes now. His clothing fit tighter than it used to. Some kind of boys’-club skinny jeans.
“I like this one, Dad. I think it’s okay. We can be happy and still miss Mom.”
“I like her too, but I’m still not sure I can do that.”
“You have to do something.”
“I know. The meetings are helping.”
“You sure? Because you still haven’t said yes to her moving in.”
Dad sighed, and the boy looked defeated.
“Love you, Mom,” they whispered, kissed a penny, and laid it on her memory.
“Grab your backpack. Let’s get you back to school.”
I felt defeated too as I watched Dad walk Bug to the car with his arm over the growing boy’s shoulder.
About five minutes later, the sisters arrived smiling. I couldn’t hear them, but from their body language and the research I’d done at work, I already knew. They used to be triplets. Dara had passed from a blood clot, but Mara and Luci were still among the living. Acceptance had come three years ago, and from then on, the women visited weekly on the same day to report life news. I’d read in Monday’s paper about Mara’s daughter getting married. The wedding was to be held at one of the local cathedrals.
There was a newer face too, a handsome single gentleman around my age. Stubble on his chin, he walked with a distinctly motivated gait, always seeming to have somewhere he needed to be. He spent no more than a minute or two at a grave I had yet to connect to him. A sister wasn’t likely—I checked. Not a mother or father. Someone he loved? I kept hoping he might stop and talk to me, but he never did. Always brushing past my bench without acknowledgment. No eye contact. Nothing.
The mourners drifted through, and between their arrivals and departures, I read, but my lunch break was nearly over. My chili dogs devoured, I licked the mess from my fingers where melted cheese had slipped like ice cream. The flimsy bag, soggy now, tore as I tossed it into the trash. Still, I sat and waited for one grand finale.
The cemetery had a friend. He didn’t work here, but he cared for it just the same, replacing flowers that may have been stolen, scrubbing graffiti even when it was the groundskeeper’s job. And every day, he rested his head on an unnamed grave. I watched his lips move without a sound. Sometimes his head fell into his hands. Other days he sighed or curled up on the earth above it until he fell asleep, branches sheltering him. He came when it snowed. He was here when I carried my umbrella and some mourners skipped this part of their usual plans.
But today, he did not come. I ached to see the faithful man I’d never actually met. The grave looked cold. The space above it looked empty without him. I realized that was why they came. Not always for the memories, but for the emptiness left by the absence of human connection. Picking my heart up off the bench, I wandered the street back to work. Back to the silence.
(A fictional writing exercise)