Untitled Drama/Tragedy

29th October, 2001

The day was overcast. Thick, dull clouds of gray rolled through the sky like the foam of stormy waves. Outside Crestlawn Memorial Park, there gathered a small group of men and women all dressed in black, some hid in gray raincoats. In the midst of the group there was one child. A boy. The boy stood sullen with his hands in his pockets. His face was full of dry tracks where tears had recently fallen, his nose red and runny. He wore a rundown leather jacket countless sizes too big, the jacket was missing three out of its eight large brown buttons and was ripped in many places. His shoes were rounded at the top comically like clown shoes. If the boy had been standing at any other place, at any other time or in any other circumstance, he would appear quite humorous. But there was no laughing in this particular crowd of people, nor would any of their laughter be heard that day.

As if on command, the miserable gathering began to walk. They filed through the rusty, worn down gate in pairs. Couples held hands in a sort of silent commemoration, their jackets and coats trailing behind them aimlessly in the cold, whispering breeze. The air around them felt like a crisp, winter’s morning, but it was early evening in the middle of autumn. Dirty brown leaves were littered on the footpath like food wrappers, and were crunched underfoot the band of mourners. The scent of freshly dug earth hung in the air and filled their noses.

Slowly they made their way through the cemetery. Despite the reasons for them being there and what the place represented, the elegant gravestones and the perfectly manicured lawns and gardens made for a beautiful setting. Even the darkness of the day couldn’t shroud the idea that formed in the minds of the people passing by; this place really is something else.
They passed a large ash tree, its leaves all somewhere in the middle of a magnificent shade of orange and a dying sandy brown. As the little boy in the oversized coat watched, a random gust of wind flew through the leaves, ripping many from their branches. Leaves fell like a red snowstorm around the boy and his companions, dancing to the ground gracefully and leaving the tree looking lonely and half naked.

They all walked on.

From the group, one man seemed to take the lead. He walked with a sad confidence about him. Like a man who just lost everything but is pretending to hold it together. He had slick black hair that looked almost greasy combed neatly over his head; a single strand clung to his forehead. His brown eyes showed much more age than was present on his face. He wore a plain black suit, a black tie and an ironed white shirt. His black leather Stiflex shoes were as impeccably tidy as his clothing. He made a sudden sharp turn to the right. Those behind him, startled, began to follow.
He led them through a thin pathway, his feet never straying from the stained concrete path. The men and women behind him were forced into single file, as if they were afraid to step onto the grass due to some subconscious restriction or a superstition.
The young boy was last in line. He followed glumly, taking soft but exaggerated steps.

They all followed like sheep silently for a further five minutes until they came to a patch of grass. There, they could see the actual gravesite.
The gravestone was a large silvery gray concrete slab. The tip of it had been sculpted into a roof. The roof, the young boy noted, looked like something you would expect to see in Ancient Greece. The gravestone read:

In
Loving Memory of
Patrick Thompson
December 17th, 1968 – October 27th, 2001.
“A devoted father and husband, and a friend to all”
R.I.P.

In front of the stone was a 6-foot deep hole. The mud was pressed so smoothly to the side of the hole; it reminded the boy of the innings of a giant, sinister chocolate cake. A mudcake, he joked with himself grimly. The casket sat to the right of the stone. As the group began to fill into the gravesite, the man with the suit made his way forward to the casket. Another gust of wind rippled its way through the surrounding trees and passed through the mourning family members and friends of Patrick Thompson.
The man in the suit opened the casket to reveal the pale figure of the deceased Mr. Thompson. There was a collection of sobs and one shocked gasp. Someone began to cry. To the far back of the crowd, the little boy peered through the gaps between bodies, wanting to see, but also afraid of what his eyes might land upon.
Directly in front of him, a lady in a pale olive-colored dress spun round and looked down on the boy.
“Come, Liam” she spoke reassuringly to her son. “I think it’s about time we moved forward, don’t you?”
Placing a hand gently upon the boy, Liam’s shoulder, she began to lead him through the crowd. Liam shuffled along compliantly, his mother shouldering (not rudely, but confidently) past the others towards the front.
It seemed like an eternity to Liam, walking under all these people. He noticed many were crying, silent tears forming and rolling away down their cheeks. Some just stood there motionless, staring forwards at something which Liam could not yet see. Finally they broke out of the flood of people and into the front. Liam began to walk forwards by himself. Unsure of what he was doing, but unable to control his legs anymore, he continued to watch in horror as the casket got closer and closer until he could peek over the top of it.
“Daddy” he croaked, and burst into tears. Horrible, heartbroken tears. Liam’s mother, who had followed behind him, bent down to Liam’s height and held him. She held him tight in her arms and together the two of them cried, unaware and untroubled by the eyes that were fixed on the both of them.
“Tiffany”, said the man in the suit. His eyes were full of empathy. And pain.
The mother looked up, and nodded understandingly. She picked up Liam, despite how heavy he had become, and walked back to join the others.
The mourners stood in respectful silence for the next ten minutes as the man in the suit read his eulogy to his brother. It talked about the happy times together, and achieved a few laughs from his tender audience. He mentioned their childhood, their quarrels, and the unfairness of the cancer. But then it was over, and together, everyone lowered the casket into the ground.

Liam was no longer crying. A killdeer perched upon the ash tree nearby began to sing. Its angelic melody carried down to the gravesite along with the wind and a bunch of dying leaves. Liam found himself entranced. The call, the breeze, the landscape, the leaves. Patrick always spoke to his son about the beauty of nature. Strange how nature had decided to be so breathtakingly beautiful on that day. Liam thought to himself, how cruel the world really was.