Narrative
The Grave Bird
I sit next to his grave. The sky is dark and it looks like it might rain, fluffy clouds turned ominous by a dark sky. There is no one else here but a thousand people below my feet, and the distant pedestrians on the street. I can hear the noises of the city, but the majority of the sound stops just before the cemetery, not able to reach past the dark iron fence that surrounds it. The silence envelops us, him and me, in a bubble. We are separate from the rest of the world.
His grave is cleaner than the others around us, but the elements have begun to take their toll. The white marble is yellowing, and dark weeds creep up the sides. I find it ugly. It’s been a year now, but it feels like forever, because time ticks by more and more slowly when you have no one to spend it with. The first few drops begin to fall, the beginning of a storm. I know I will not last much longer without a storm of my own. Just looking at the smooth marble, his name etched into its front and an age that was just too young carved below it, chokes me up.
Thunder booms and disrupts the silence. The rain begins to fall. My own waterfall begins to pour with it, as if the still quiet air was the only thing holding me back, and the noise tipped the balance. The water meets the top of the grave and mixes with dried dirt. The puddles of water sitting on his stone turn a murky brown and I frantically swipe at the water, trying to get the mud off. But it keeps refilling.
The rain stabs as my back sit hunched over. My eyes are blurry, due to crying or rainwater, I do not know. And my makeup is running down my face, but I do not care. I do not care that the my tears drip down my nose and the saltiness of them singes my mouth.
“NO! NO! NO!” I scream aloud, not caring if someone hears. But there is no one to hear, no one, because he is gone. And now I’m angry at him and at the rain and the weeds and the moss that keep growing over his grave no matter how much I pull it off. And I am angry at him for dying and I’m angry at this whole dang world for everything. Because when I think of him I do not see the the smiling man that he was. I look at the muddy grave and see him grimacing in pain because he did not know about his illness. I remember the dark rainy funeral we held here, and the only music that comes to mind when I hear his name is that of a memorial procession. It is not the guitar that he played for me.
His life was special, but I cannot think of the good. Every drop of mud on the stone, every “I’m sorry for your loss”, just makes me hate this, makes me hate him, even more. And then I hate myself for getting mad at a dead man. Each moment of mourning dampens my memory of him. So I sit next to the covered grave in wet clothes and I weep. Why did it have to be this way?
A small pittering catches my attention. It’s a bird. His favorite animals were birds. It chirps at me, mocking me with its little content face. I begin to remember a trip we had taken years back, when we traveled through the rainforest, birdwatching. This, of course was just a common finch. However, a little part of me warms as I realize I hadn’t thought about that trip in years.
I watch a the bird pecks at the grave. I frown. Sitting still as not to disturb its visit, I watch with wonder as the bird flies away, strings of course weeds in its mouth. The bird comes back, again and again, until there is a noticeable different in the grave. I know that it probably is just building a nest. It doesn’t know who I am, who he is.
But as the innocent bird sits on the newly cleaned grave, somewhere deep within me, in the depths of my unconscious mind, my memory of him brightens.
His grave is cleaner than the others around us, but the elements have begun to take their toll. The white marble is yellowing, and dark weeds creep up the sides. I find it ugly. It’s been a year now, but it feels like forever, because time ticks by more and more slowly when you have no one to spend it with. The first few drops begin to fall, the beginning of a storm. I know I will not last much longer without a storm of my own. Just looking at the smooth marble, his name etched into its front and an age that was just too young carved below it, chokes me up.
Thunder booms and disrupts the silence. The rain begins to fall. My own waterfall begins to pour with it, as if the still quiet air was the only thing holding me back, and the noise tipped the balance. The water meets the top of the grave and mixes with dried dirt. The puddles of water sitting on his stone turn a murky brown and I frantically swipe at the water, trying to get the mud off. But it keeps refilling.
The rain stabs as my back sit hunched over. My eyes are blurry, due to crying or rainwater, I do not know. And my makeup is running down my face, but I do not care. I do not care that the my tears drip down my nose and the saltiness of them singes my mouth.
“NO! NO! NO!” I scream aloud, not caring if someone hears. But there is no one to hear, no one, because he is gone. And now I’m angry at him and at the rain and the weeds and the moss that keep growing over his grave no matter how much I pull it off. And I am angry at him for dying and I’m angry at this whole dang world for everything. Because when I think of him I do not see the the smiling man that he was. I look at the muddy grave and see him grimacing in pain because he did not know about his illness. I remember the dark rainy funeral we held here, and the only music that comes to mind when I hear his name is that of a memorial procession. It is not the guitar that he played for me.
His life was special, but I cannot think of the good. Every drop of mud on the stone, every “I’m sorry for your loss”, just makes me hate this, makes me hate him, even more. And then I hate myself for getting mad at a dead man. Each moment of mourning dampens my memory of him. So I sit next to the covered grave in wet clothes and I weep. Why did it have to be this way?
A small pittering catches my attention. It’s a bird. His favorite animals were birds. It chirps at me, mocking me with its little content face. I begin to remember a trip we had taken years back, when we traveled through the rainforest, birdwatching. This, of course was just a common finch. However, a little part of me warms as I realize I hadn’t thought about that trip in years.
I watch a the bird pecks at the grave. I frown. Sitting still as not to disturb its visit, I watch with wonder as the bird flies away, strings of course weeds in its mouth. The bird comes back, again and again, until there is a noticeable different in the grave. I know that it probably is just building a nest. It doesn’t know who I am, who he is.
But as the innocent bird sits on the newly cleaned grave, somewhere deep within me, in the depths of my unconscious mind, my memory of him brightens.
Reflection
One important thing that I researched was how memories can change as new input is added on to them. Memories are created through the connecting of brain cells. These cells fire over and over in a distinct pattern when we recall that memory. However, when new input is connected to the topic, your brain almost rewires that memory, changing how you view it. This is what inspired the narrative. You all know the term, "in loving memory". Losing someone often draws on the living to remember, and recall times with loved ones. My goal to show how memories can change in your mind mixed with the idea of losing someone. And boom, you just read what came out, This probably made you feel something. Maybe a little? Well I tried to make it do so. I wanted to convey a mood in this short story/flash narrative. As you might be able to tell, I used the setting and plot events to convey a dreary mood. Using dark, ominous clouds and the setting of the cemetery really sets you up to read something sad. Furthermore, losing loved ones is a personal topic to many people, so by drawing on that emotion, I was hopefully able to make you wonder a little about your own memories of those you love, while teaching an interesting concept about memory.
One important thing that I researched was how memories can change as new input is added on to them. Memories are created through the connecting of brain cells. These cells fire over and over in a distinct pattern when we recall that memory. However, when new input is connected to the topic, your brain almost rewires that memory, changing how you view it. This is what inspired the narrative. You all know the term, "in loving memory". Losing someone often draws on the living to remember, and recall times with loved ones. My goal to show how memories can change in your mind mixed with the idea of losing someone. And boom, you just read what came out, This probably made you feel something. Maybe a little? Well I tried to make it do so. I wanted to convey a mood in this short story/flash narrative. As you might be able to tell, I used the setting and plot events to convey a dreary mood. Using dark, ominous clouds and the setting of the cemetery really sets you up to read something sad. Furthermore, losing loved ones is a personal topic to many people, so by drawing on that emotion, I was hopefully able to make you wonder a little about your own memories of those you love, while teaching an interesting concept about memory.