Grave Images

This story is by Lisa Corbin and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Tommy rolled the cherry from his cigarette and pocketed the butt. Littering didn’t make the cut on his impressive list of vices. Squinting in the bright July sun, he gave the small country cemetery a once over before entering the metal gates. The last time he was here they were putting his grandmother in the ground. That was 27 years ago.

 

 

As Tommy walked down the gravel path, he recalled his first visit to this cemetery. He could still hear the crisp fall leaves crunching beneath his Goodwill sneakers. It was Halloween and his third-grade class was on a field trip. His elementary school was just two blocks away. The kids were armed with tracing paper, masking tape, and crayons.

 

“Everyone pick a tombstone!” instructed Mrs. Mathis. The kids scrambled around like they were playing musical chairs. No one wanted to be without a grave when the music stopped. Tommy settled on a marble statue, a time eroded angel missing her right hand. The inscription read, “The gardener asked Who plucked this flower? The answer was The Master. And the gardener held his peace.”

 

A child’s grave. Perhaps that’s what attracted Tommy to it. Some sense of camaraderie. He gently taped his tracing paper to the stone. Carefully, he rubbed over the inscription with the nub of black crayon he pulled from his pocket. Every curve of every letter was a story in his mind. Had this child been happy? Loved? Or did she live in fear, like he did. A tinge of envy flicked his heart.

 

Mrs. Mathis blew her whistle, rounding up the troops. That night, Tommy proudly but timidly showed his mother the etching. She crumpled it up and threw it in the trash, not bothering to look Tommy in the eye. She never missed an opportunity to hurt him, physically or emotionally.

 

Tommy shrugged. That was a long time ago. Leave the past in the past. He wiped the sweat from his brow on his shirt sleeve. The southern humidity melting him, draining his energy. But he kept moving.

 

Tommy wandered aimlessly through the Garden of Devotion. An enormous marble slab in the shape of an open bible bore an inscription of the Lord’s Prayer. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, Tommy read aloud. A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

 

Some people find cemeteries depressing, Tommy found them beautiful. The mausoleums, the hand carved statues, the engraved tombstones were all works of art. The tenderness that went into the inscriptions could make a grown man cry. But the overwhelming sense of peace, that was the best part. There’s a simple beauty to graveyards and Tommy had seen plenty. He’d spent time in Mexico for Dia de los Muertos. He’d explored the Lycian Tombs in Turkey, the catacombs in Paris, the Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague. Tommy made his living photographing cemeteries. For the past 10 years, he had traveled the world with his old 35mm Nikon. The world of photography had advanced around him, but he still loved the process of developing his own film, the satisfaction of watching your memories come to life.

 

His grandmother had taught him on that very same camera. One of their favorite muses was Tommy’s little sister, Lily. She was the perfect model, always smiling, wavy blond hair and big blue eyes. She looked nothing like Tommy. Maybe that’s why their mother loved her so. Once, Tommy took the most amazing picture. His mother was on the front porch holding Lily. A few strands of greying hair had escaped the woman’s braid and blew gently in the wind. She had these lines in the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, and she was looking out past everything. She looked almost soft. Tommy never showed it to her. Even now, the thought of her gave him an uneasy filling in the pit of his stomach. A combination of hate, fear, anger, sadness, self-loathing.

 

His grandmother died when Tommy was 15. He came home from school one day to find his mother sitting at the table, her head in her hands. When Tommy asked what was wrong, she spat at him, rage burning in her eyes, “SHE DIED!” That tone, that look, always meant to inflict shame. Like it was somehow his fault. He swallowed hard.

 

“Who died, mom?” but his heart dropped. He already knew the answer.

 

After the wake, Tommy slipped away to his room. He pulled his grandfathers’ old army duffle from under his bed and stuffed it with a sleeping bag, his camera, a change of clothes, and what little money he had saved up. As he moved swiftly to the door, something on the dresser caught his eye. He meant to leave it, but at the last moment grabbed the photo of his mother and Lily, shoving it into his shirt pocket, then closed the door behind him.

 

That night, Tommy rolled out his grandfather’s army issue down-filled sleeping bag beside the fresh dirt of his grandmother’s grave. It was the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. It was the first of many nights spent amongst the dead. The peace that some people found in church; Tommy found in the hallowed ground of graveyards.

 

He had sworn he would never set foot in this town again. But last week, the email from Lily came. And so, here he was.

 

Faded plastic flowers and tattered America flags littered the grounds. The chirping of a squirrel was the only sound piercing the silence. Tommy reveled in the quiet stillness that only existed among the dead. The only thing he found macabre about cemeteries was the tombstones with no expiration dates. A name, a date of birth, and a loving sentiment for a living breathing human. Now that is morbid, he thought.

 

After taking a few shots of the civil war era graves, Tommy made his way back home to his grandmother’s grave. Wherever she was, that was home to him. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue broadcloth shirt, exposing an ankh tattoo on his right forearm. His knees cracked as he squatted in front of his grandmother’s grave. A simple marker covered in lichen read Nora Tate 6/12/1935-1/21/1995. It was fitting that she died in January as she loved a winter landscape. She would have enjoyed her funeral, he thought with a smile. Once she had told Tommy how she loved the winter trees, stripped of their leaves, standing so unashamed in their nakedness.

“Draw me a picture, Tommy?” she asked.

“Granny, you know I can’t draw. But I’ll take a photo for you.”

“Even better,” she smiled.

 

Furrowing his brow, he realized he still hadn’t taken that picture.

 

The whistle of a red-winged blackbird startled him. He smiled at the bird perched on the tombstone. A freshly dug grave caught his attention to the right. From his crouched position, he crabbed walked over. His fingers played across the smooth stone, tracing the newly etched letters. He looked over his shoulder, wondering where he left his duffle. Finding it lying to the side, he pulled out his rubbing kit: lumberman’s chalk, masking tape, and a sheet of vellum. He taped the sheet carefully across the marker. He rubbed the chalk over the vellum, making an impression. Tommy removed the tape and gently slid the rubbing into a manilla envelope and tucked it back in his bag, along with his kit. His knees groaned in protest as he stood up. Sighing, he removed a crumpled paper square from his shirt pocket. He stroked the frayed edges. The film puckered from the paper backing. With one last look, Tommy flicked the picture of his mother onto her grave and turned away. His emotions swirled around him like a cyclone, but the only sorrow he felt was for Lily.

 

He made his way back to the parking lot, a lightness in his heart that he hadn’t felt before. Under the shade of a gingko tree, her face glistening with sweat, Lily reached out to her brother.  He held her to him, a new common ground between them. Lily was an orphan now. Tommy had been one for years.