part0078

It’s always the same thing. I hold on to the hope that there’s somebody else out there, like me, snapping pics of old graves and rubbing interesting epitaphs – some of which I have framed in my apartment.

There is nothing scary about death, at least not for me. I find beauty as I glance at the rolling hills, the tops of gravestones looking like shadows against the orange and pink sunset. The birds sing as the butterflies and bees bustle about. Six feet under my feet, bodies are resting. Some have been here for centuries, some decades, and some for a few days. It fascinates me, this fleshy vehicle our souls inhabit as we travel down this highway known as life. Where do we go afterward? I’m not sure, but I find myself believing in something, though it isn’t conventional.

I’d like to think that it all starts over. Maybe it’s because I want to see if things are different in a different body and under different circumstances. One can only hope. I’m watching my life fall away like a sand timer, grasping at each grain – my heart stuttering every time a moment passes, never to be relived again. The sting begins in my heart, and spreads like a fire, but I stop it. It isn’t worth it, because there isn’t any use in crying over spilt milk.

I stop when I see the weeping angel, draped over her platform with her face hidden. She’s bigger than I am, and my God, she’s beautiful. This cemetery covers acres, and she sits right in the middle, the trees shading her from the evening sun. Pulling out my Canon, I kneel before snapping a couple pictures of the stone beauty – her wings resting delicately at her sides as if she were defeated.

She is a replica of “The Angel of Grief” – the original statue sits in a cemetery in Rome. The artist sculpted the statue as a monument for his dead wife, an act which I find to be candidly sweet, and though the replica is beautiful, I’d give anything to travel to Rome to lay my eyes on the original.

It’s due to beauties like this that I am a tombstone tourist – a graver – a taphophile… spending my days gravestone rubbing, photographing graves, and locating famous peoples’ burial grounds. It’s a passion that I’ve had since my days in my childhood backyard, jumping high on the big trampoline - reaching for the stars while the dead kept me grounded.

For centuries, people have sought out famous graves, and relatives. Visiting graves has been common dating back to Medieval times, when the people would visit gravesites to cherish the saints. In China, Ancestor Worship was an ancient tradition.

Garden cemeteries were introduced in the 18th century to keep loved ones around for a longer visit. As for gravestone rubbing, it has been in practice for centuries as a way of documentation, as well as to admire unique epitaphs. So, you see, what I do isn’t that strange at all.

“Mortui vivos docent” is Latin for “the dead teach the living,” which has always resonated with me. If not for the dead, what reminders would we have that this one life we’re given is so short? Sitting in a cemetery is sobering, because it reminds me that time is fleeting.

I hear the clearing of a throat, and I turn. Looking around, I don’t see anyone. I’m still alone, it seems. Maybe it’s the spirits around me. Perhaps it’s my rotten mind. But then, when I ready the lens of my camera, I hear a snap. But it isn’t from the shutter of my camera. I never hit the button. My eyes slowly travel away from the viewfinder, and my heart skips a beat when I see the source.

The brunette Kurt Cobain of my dreams… and he’s taking photos of a grave several rows down from me. When he begins to glance my way, I duck behind a large tombstone and clamp my hand over my mouth. This isn’t possible. There’s no way the dream man from the bar is standing here, in one of my favorite spots, taking pictures of the things that I hold so dear. I feel something soft against my arm, and my eyes grow wide when I see the large crow staring down at me from where it’s perched on the tombstone. I don’t have much time to do anything before he begins pecking at my hair, causing a shrill scream to escape my mouth before I’m rolling around, swatting feverishly at the air. The crow stays in place, staring at me mockingly as I look up at it in complete horror. I’ve never liked birds, nasty things.

“Sampson!” I hear, followed by a high-pitched sound that makes me jump. Looking over, I see the guy from the bar standing with his arm extended. The crow swoops over to him, landing on his arm and pecking what looks to be a treat from his hand. I stand, dusting off my black leggings and tunic top with a white lace skull in the middle. A gift from Liam.

“Attack bird?” I holler across the row of graves, and he laughs.

“Not usually. I saw you hiding over there. He must’ve seen you, too, and was trying to get your attention.”

I shrug, picking up my rubbing kit before turning and shouting over my shoulder, “You’re lucky he didn’t peck my eye out. One hell of a lawsuit, I’m sure.” He doesn’t respond, and I sigh from the pit of my lungs; the exhale expelling any hopes I mustered up when I saw him here.

Kneeling, I pull out a sheet of rubbing paper before laying it atop the weathered, engraved stone.

Annabelle Smith, died 1862.

There are intricately engraved vines with leaves of various sizes surrounding her epitaph – a little dove engraved along the last “h” of her name. Moss has collected in some of the indentions, which at times can prove difficult when trying to rub a grave – but I kind of like how the moss stains the paper greens of different hues.

“Do you come here often?” The man says from behind me, and a smile pulls at my lips. Didn’t scare him away yet, and he isn’t some druggy lowlife that I happened to screw once during a drug-induced stupor. This isn’t a man who abused me, and it isn’t some nice older gentleman with a straight-faced sense of humor. This is the stranger that I watched in awe. Hopeful to meet, yet cautious.

Even devils can sweep you off your feet.

If it were up to me, I’d avoid it all together. Still, there would be a need gnawing at me. To see love in its truest form with no repercussions attached. Somebody to love the skinny girl with alabaster skin.

“I do,” I respond, lightly rubbing the chalk along the paper until Annabelle’s epitaph can be seen. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before, though.”

Turning, I peer at him beneath my hand which serves shade to my weary eyes. “New hobby? Are you a photographer?”

He shrugs, and my eyes jump between his, and the large crow which remains comfortably perched on his shoulder. His large hands dangle at his sides, and his camera dangles from his neck and rests against his chest. “A photographer, no. My mom bought me this camera on a whim one Christmas – before I went backpacking. Funny thing is, I didn’t really use it on the trip. It pretty much collected dust for six months while I used my phone to take mediocre pictures. As for hanging around cemeteries, I’ve seen some of the most beautiful ones when I was in Europe. I have to say that’s when I sort of developed a love for it.”

“So, what brought you here?” I blurt out, before quickly diverting my eyes and shaking my head slightly. Not enough to notice, just enough to repeat in my head, “you’re an idiot, Em. Move on. ” I don’t even know him, and he doesn’t know me, yet everything in me screams that I’m not good enough.

Not for him, not for anyone.

What if he knew about me and Liam? What if he knew about my desire for pain? My obsession for being knocked off my feet, solely for the sake of creating art? I don’t pay any bills. Liam does. My stepfather. The man I still fuck – all he needs to do is say the word, and I will open my legs for him. Liam knows that.

This guy? He doesn’t, and if he did, he’d be running for the hills.

“My nana asked for me to stay this summer. I figured it was the least that I could do, seeing as she paid for my trip around the world.”

“Wow,” I mutter as I roll up the paper, “How nice of her.”

“Yeah,” He continues. “She’s an incredible woman. She’s all I have left, really.”

I nod. I really don’t have anyone. I lost mom that night. All I’m left with are awkward holiday dinners and Liam caressing my leg every time mom leaves the dining room frantically in search of another dish. She’s beautiful, my mother. I didn’t get her blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, or her winning smile with pearly teeth. She looks at me like I’m some skinny dead rat that the cat dragged in.

“I heard you play the other night,” He says, and I freeze. I didn’t see him anywhere, and I listen, waiting anxiously between hurried breaths. “You’re really good. Mazzy Star has some great stuff. Something about the feel, you know? It always puts me in a dreamy state.”

I frown. “I usually stick with Nirvana. But…”

“So you heard my act?” He asks excitedly, and I look over my shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re not bad.”

“Thanks,” he responds, leaning against a pine tree next to the grave I’ve been rubbing - that damned crow perched on the grave beside me, watching everything.

“That last song… wow. I was captivated. Was it one of yours?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, grabbing my things before standing and facing him. “I write in my spare time. Poems become songs.”

“Kind of how life becomes a poem,” he says.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I say, turning and walking towards my car. I feel him following behind me, and can’t help the stupid smile that pulls at my lips. “What’s with the bird, anyway?” I ask, pulling my keys from my pocket before hitting the trunk button.

The trunk pops open before I place my rubbing kit, and new rubbing, inside.

“I saved him, I guess. His wing was hurt, nursed him back to health, and he kind of just stuck around.”

“Isn’t it against the law to own one of those things?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It isn’t against the law to have one follow you around.”

“Touché,” I shrug, closing my trunk before turning to face him. “Name’s Emily. Em for short.”

He takes my extended hand before giving it a warm shake, “I’m Rowan – just Rowan. No cool, short nicknames.”

I smile slightly. I like his name. “I’ll see you around,” I murmur before releasing his hand.

“Can I at least get your number?” He hollers behind me, but I’ve already gotten in my car and closed the door. Rolling down the window, I peer out.

“No need. This is a small town. I’ll see you when I see you.” Then, I’m off, leaving him speechless as I speed off into the sunset like a gypsy on a mission to freedom.