To walk the graveyard is a funny thing.

I’ve been coming here since I can remember, so I’m used to it, of course. One wouldn’t think that it’s a place of death and sorrow, not when there’s so much life. Stray dogs and cats have taken refuge in the calm here, and cats, being cats, have an affinity for curling up on gravestones. The grass underneath my feet doesn’t so much as bend when I tread on it, lush and green. Well, I think, it’s certainly getting enough nutrients. That’s the other thing about walking the graveyard: it gives you a morbid sense of humor.

In a way, it’s nice to see so many loved ones here for the dead. Their families, friends, lovers, even dogs are long gone, but they’re very present in the hearts of the living. I do what I can to ease their sorrow. If only they understood that the dead are the lucky ones, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. I pat a shoulder here and there, brush stray auburn locks out of a young woman’s face; her eyes fly to me with a gasp, and then she’s crying again. I’m sure the wound is too fresh, too new. At least she didn’t run away. Some people do, perhaps offended at their grieving being interrupted by a well-meaning stranger. In any case, no matter what I do, it doesn’t help for long.

I go back to the grave I’m here for and run a hand along its cold surface. Maybe it’s too cold; I can’t really feel it anymore. I don’t remember who I’m here to see; I never do. I know the first few times I walked the graveyard, I had someone in mind, a child, a girl. I think she was blonde or brunette or--well, I can’t remember. It’s been too long. I wish I remembered her, but when one is walking the graveyard, it’s hard not to feel at peace about things.

I pick myself up, clear the residue of something suspiciously salty from my eyes, and wait by my grave. I haven’t had a visitor for a while now, not since that girl stopped coming, but it’s never too late to hope. It’s only been a couple hundred years.

@demcmurphy

When the life cycle of pupae turned the corner, shedding it’s robe, Nana broke out her complementary weapons. Nothing was going to keep her from her merited pastime; books, bonbons and swinging on summer eves. It was time to prepare her coveted porch for battle. Off spray cans were purchased at Woolworths along with boxed matches and citronella candles.

“What’s that for Nana?” My discombobulated nose demanded I ask, even though I knew the answer.

“What’s what for?”

For dramatic effect, I faked a cough, yet another one of my damsel in distress auditions. Instead of speaking, as if I couldn’t, I pointed with my left hand towards the etched glass cylinder holding the waxed oil and wickered flame. With my right hand, I pinched my nose.

“It’s called citronella Suzie,” She said curtly, rolling her eyes. “Haven’t I explained about that already? It helps keep the mosquitoes away.” Yes, she had told me, many times. Did she wonder back then just who or what was the ultimate porch pest? The next question I wanted to ask Nana but decided to quit while I was ahead was, “Could it be there is something smelly about me keeping him away?” But I didn’t, because quite frankly, why should I put dear Nana through yet another one of my pity parties? Even the sultry evening did not deserve another one of my whine fests over my big brother’s eschewal of me.

The years went by as they do, with another calendar tossed unceremoniously on January 1st. At the head of the basement stairs I’d step silently, questioningly over the threshold where there was proof that Robbie and I were indeed siblings. The door jam where Nana had stopped measuring us, was that evidence; hand written dates, flanked by the initials of either SK, or RK, with a one inch line ending in a numerical height. It had been many a New Year’s past since Robbie declared, “I’m too big for this. Enough already.” And just like that one of the few things we did together was in compliance with yet another cease and desist order. Besides outgrowing the ritual, as small as it would be to some, stopping it was patently against my own desire. Blood was just not thicker than water in my house, at least not between Robbie and me, his call only, until one summer night when the cicadas came out to play.

The power was out at our house at a time when hurricanes weren’t measured in categories but in number of days without Johnny Carson. Seven. Bored enough to sleep, but kept awake by the heat and hunger for something other than the defrosted food Nana forced upon us, apparently the desperation worked in my favor. Nana was probably asleep for hours when there was a knock at my bedroom door. This rat ta tat tat could not be from Nana’s knuckles. She did not knock, a mutually agreeable arrangement between us. An intruder? For certainly, the only other human living in our abode, would not be coming a calling on me, would he? Unsure if I should open the door to an intruder, I called out sheepishly, “Who’s there?”

“Who do you think, Peabrain. The man in the moon?” He called me Peabrain often, and nerd, and baby. Baby, not in a good way like babe; like stick your head in gravy baby. I liked that name the least, and never asked Nana why she didn’t tell him to knock it off.

“Want to go for a bike ride?” He said, as if he asked me to pass the salt, so why should I react to his invite as if the neighbor’s cat just got hit by a car?

“Sure!” I said kinda cool, but then I immediately recoiled like a morning glory; couldn’t help myself, and he watched as I looked at the wind up clock. “But it’s eleven o’clock? What would Nana say? It’s past our curfew.”

“Don’t be a baby, Pea brain.” And for once, I suddenly sorta got why he called me baby.

“Let’s go. NOW!” I retorted, pushing past him as he stood caught off guard in the doorway. Something came over me. A fever of sorts, pumping through my viens. Game on. For once, he was the one to follow me as we began to creep down the narrow hallway. I motioned “shh” canoodling my pointer with my smirk as we passed by Nana’s room. If sawing logs means snoring, sequoias were dropping in there. There was no doubt the coast was clear, and she’d be out cold for the night.

Bike helmets were not a thing back then, so seconds from the front porch, we embarked upon our maiden voyage secretly named by me, “Hoorayzonetime.” One wrong move, or word said by me would surely put an end to the present dream come true, so refusing to throw caution to the wind, I changed course readily and assumed the ancillary position.

Credit to the moonlit clear night, we were off and navigating handily through the aftermath of the storm. “Head towards Chestnut,” he commanded, and I obeyed. “Turn left at Walnut....right at Aspen.....” Following his direction and his pace, things were going rather smoothly, even when I realized we had passed the town line. Nothing was going to hinder my joie de vivre. Robbie stopped giving verbal direction when he realized just how in sync we were. As a gymnast, my stamina and balance were solid. Effortlessly pumping the pedals, with arms outstreched off the handlebars, we almost touched fingertips at one point.

No name calling, without talking at all, the only sound heard besides the cicadas was the deceleration of our bike wheels, when to my chagrin, I looked to my left to see we were at the curb of the Forest Hills cemetery. Robbie motioned his head towards the entrance. Was this a cruel trick? A test of my babyhoodism? Not funny! I hate cemeteries! Bones, stones and soil. All of it. Oh and ghosts, real or imagined. But on the other hand, I had the fever for Hoorayzonetime, so even I surprised myself when I was the first to get off my bike and say, “Let’s do it!”

The first few steps off our bikes were slightly wobbly as our muscles shifted gears from pump to walk. The sign we both read at the lit, ungated entrance read, CLOSED AFTER SUNSET. Another test of my game on approach to this evening, and I passed the test and the sign with ease. I did not protest, even though Biddable was the pseudo middle name I gave myself.

It wasn’t long before we were running deep into the yard of bones, sprinting as if we were two track stars in a fifty yard dash, decidedly fueled by adrenaline, when we heard, “STOP!” The LED headlamp blinded us into submission, more than the command. Before us stood an aged, slightly built, Barney Fife look alike weary rent-a-cop. “What do you kids think you are doing? Didn’t you read the sign? Don’t you have a curfew? Do you know you are trespassing? How would you like to be charged with a class 3 misdemeanor that comes with a $500 fine? Where do your folks think you are right now?

That’s when it kicked in. Partly due to my extensive babyhoodism training, but mostly in celebration of Hoorayzonetime, I was about to execute an academy award performance. The mere mention of my parents always conjured tears, but this time, I drew on that pain, workin’ it to save our asses.

“Mister.....mister.......plluueesssee......don’t......arrest.......us! I choked through every word, punctuated with squeals and gasps that sounded like the inconceivable offspring of a pig and a donkey. At this point I probably only kept him at bay because he might have thought I was having a seizure. I continued, slightly more composed. “How would it feel to you if your parents were both killed in a plane crash? Do you think it’s easy growing up without parents? Thank God for our Nana. Bless her heart; she takes such good care of us and I know it would kill her if we got arrested. It’s the anniversary of their death, and Nana couldn’t drive us over here because her car was damaged in the storm. I told my dear brother that I couldn’t go to sleep without visiting their grave and he was kind enough to honor my request. PLLUUEESSSEE don’t arrest us!”

I lied. About all of it, except the part that it would kill Nana if he arrested us. Truth be told, our father left the country chasing a Russian doll, never to be heard from again, and our mother was so depressed she took an overdose of sleeping pills when we were 3 and 6, but that explanation might not have gotten us the get out of jail free card.

“I’m so sorry about your folks, and no we wouldn’t want to upset dear Nana; regardless, you kids need to follow the rules. Where is the gravesite?”

“Right over there,” I pointed, hoping, for obvious reasons, he wouldn’t lead us over towards the headstones.

“Go on now. I’ll give you one minute and then I’ll lead you out of here.” Thankfully, out of respect for the deceased, he didn’t follow, because from what could be read in the moonlight, we were standing in front of Harvey Whitestone’s headstone, born 1888, died 1941. I continued to weep donkey-pig style counting to 60 and then we walked back to him. “Barney Fife” shook my brother’s hand and gave me a half assed hug like I had cooties. Could I blame him?

“Get on home now. I’ll lead you out of here. Are you on foot?”

“Our bikes are out at the curb.”

“Well let’s hope they are still there.” I hadn’t thought of that. They were. His parting words were, “Again, I’m sorry, but don’t come back here at night again, OK?”

“We won’t mister. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” OK. That parting line was a little bit much while standing in front of a cemetary.

Back on the bikes, we made it a couple of blocks before we fell off of them, rip roaring laughing. It was my brother’s turn to do all the talking. “That was so righteous and groovy man! Cool daddy-O! Leave it to my punk sister to throw a hissy fit knocking off the fuzz. Wait till I tell my dudes. You are NOT the candyass I thought you were!”

And there it was; the gift I was pining for all along. I’m not going to lie straight up and say we were bossom buddies from that day forward, but something did change. Robbie gifted me a new name. Badass. Nana, for once, maybe because the name is sort of a curse, told him not to call me that, but I decided it was so much better than baby.

Sometimes it’s simply the rustle of leaves swirling along with the rushing wind of a bicycle wheel; the scent of a sticky, humid plastic mask; the taste of a pumpkin-flavored anything. Sometimes it’s a memory of shaved grapes sitting inside an old shoebox with a hole cut out, just big enough for the fingers of a first grader to reach into and scream with fear and delight. More often than not, it’s a date - a birthday, an anniversary, a family holiday. These are the days by which we measure our age, reflect on our growth, and plan ahead for what is coming. All of this is the Fall. The Fall back into our youth, the Fall forward into our future, the Fall caused by a wet leaf stuck against a slippery stepping stone.

The Fall makes us who we are. It challenges us to survive as we drift away from the warm sunny days we’ve grown accustomed to and into something much colder, much more biting, much more abrasive. But it rewards us with beauty, changing colors, and promises of reunion. It forces us to come together with those we love; some with whom we’ve managed to keep in touch, and others we must remember we’ve forgotten. The Fall calls for large meals prepared over the course of a day, expectations we’re afraid we can’t live up to, and tiny insignificant details that wouldn’t matter on any other occasion. It begs us to take on new roles, grow into our mothers’ shoes, and make our own to-do lists that will never find completion.

But as fast as Summer turns to Fall and Fall fades into Winter, we realize that none of this really matters. Come December, we find the warmth we’ve been lacking. We run and run for weeks on end to settle into the solstice, when there is no time left to worry about preparations, and all the time in the world to sit, to talk, to cuddle up with a warm blanket or someone who you forgot to love on through all the rush and bustle. We love the loud vibrant colors of the Fall and all that they demand of us because we love the stress. We love having stories to tell. We love to feel accomplished. And we know what awaits us when it’s through.

True peace. Quiet. Hushed reassurances of “I love you”s and “I love you too”s. We learn to grow and we crave the opportunity to do it again and again. We know it will never stop. And we love that consistency, that ever-flowing promise. Fall brings goodness. Fall brings life.

Each year the Fall returns with its same shouting colors of wild abandon. Yellow, orange, fire-engine red. These colors fade out and fall to the ground; we rake them up and put them in paper bags. And then we move on. And we celebrate. The same ritual that we learned from our fathers, that we share with our partners, that we’ll pass on to our children.

We mark our growth by the pictures across the table, in front of the tree, wrapped up in our matching jammies surrounded by torn wrapping paper. We see the change in our eyes and our bodies, as some new faces are added, and others disappear. We mark those memories of who we are by the way we felt with that haircut, that cool pair of sneakers, that woven choker necklace that went in and out of style. We feel comforted in seeing the same poses, the same familial arrangements, year after year; just taller, or shorter, or blonder, or grayer.

#challenge #fall #autumn #growth #personalgrowth #growingup #solstice #age #holidays #expectations #learning

I ran out of paper just as the sun dipped down below the horizon. And I felt the words spin and twirl around my fingertips, begging me to release them. But the light was dying, and I had nowhere to spill the ink. I let my eye lids drop heavy, stopping my eyes from soaking in the moonlight. Stars flickering overhead in a gentle push and pull with the waves crawling up onto the shore. And as my mind crashes into slumber, I look up into a dim chandelier. I hear light, twinkling notes catching on the air. Crystals playing iridescent prisms across the massive expanse of a ballroom. I sway in time with the slight rocking of the room. Gauzy, white tulle wraps my body and flows gently, grazing the water that reaches for my ankles. My bare feet meet the hardwood floors just as my eyes take in the flood pouring out from under the doors surrounding the room. It’s salt water drowning me fast. And I have to let my story out before it creeps up my frame. So I dig my nails deep into flesh. I carve the words and fill them with left over ink. My skin the only place to record my truth. My veins scrawling perfect penmanship down my arms and legs. My ribs covered in thoughts. Careening script across my clavicles and my sternum. And the water flooding faster. Reaching ever closer. Memories digging themselves up and covering my throat as I lift my chin to steal a last breath into my water logged lungs. And I wake just before dawn. I wake in the ocean. Salt stinging my wrists as the blood pools.

“Cassandra..” He called for her pulling her out of thoughts. There was a slight look of sympathy and warmth in his eyes that she couldn’t help feeling nervous.

”..Yes,” She answered as her eyes dropped to the floor. She swallowed. “What is it?” Please don’t say it.That he—

“He’s dead,”

And just like that, the boy took her whole world and crushed it.