Except for all the dead people, and me, nobody’s here. Talk about quiet, especially in the ancient section. The gravestones are all crumbly and tilted, like they’ve been chatting and eating crackers. Rose said she comes here to talk to Tim, so maybe Jessie does too. He’s probably way down by the benches where everything’s shiny and straight. That’s where Grandpa Giles is, next to Anton Starchak whose big black headstone says ‘A noble example was his life.’ Poor Grandpa, a fireman whose house burned down while he was passed out drunk on the couch, and he’s stuck beside someone perfect for eternity. It’s bad enough sitting beside Paige for ninety minutes three times a week.
I’m post-adrenalin relaxed and feel like drifting around here smelling pine and imagining the grief of others. As in the parents of ‘Our darling Annie, 9 months & 13 days,’ who has a mossy lamb on her stone. ‘Weep not, Father and Mother, for me, for I am waiting in glory for thee.’ Oh, right. Très comforting.
In the new section, a lot of the headstones are flat, like labels on a massive underground cabinet, so it’s crowded and I probably won’t find Tim. I don’t really know why I want to anyway.
Maybe I’ve finally summoned Leonard because is that cigarette smoke? I lean against the willow, the last thing between me and the smoker.
‘Go, on,’ says the woman, holding out a Tupperware container. ‘Tastes like a holiday.’ She’s eating grapes and smoking. Versatile. I take a couple and say thanks.
‘Did you know Tim Letorneau?’ I rock on my feet like a weirdo but momentum feels important in a graveyard.
‘Nope.’
‘How about Leonard Johnson?’
‘Nope.’ She points at a gravestone. ‘You ever hear of Roger Blackstone?’ No. ‘Got him that carnation.’
‘Wow, that’s real?’ I say, because we are talking screaming red.
‘Roger wouldn’t go for nothing fake.’ She puts a lid on the grapes. ‘Bunch of Letorneaus over there, six rows down, maybe ten.’
I thank her, even though she has turned away, and walk by dozens more dead people. I wonder if I’ve ever walked by someone or sat beside someone on the bus who died that very day. At least one, I bet. And I’ll never know who. Someday I’ll be that person to a bunch of other people.
Did Leonard feel relieved, even a little bit, as he died? No more AA meetings, no more car problems. All done. All the work of being human, done. Maybe that’s what Tim needed, what they all got. Okay, Dad, really, do you resent not having a tombstone? Because I’d have visited wearing long black drapey things.
Robert Letorneau. Marie Letorneau. Sylvie, James, Donald. At the end: Timothy Michael Letorneau. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Please make Jessie like me again. And if there’s something I’m supposed to do, let me know.’ I pull out Marcel 19 and explain Marcel’s mitochondrial curiosities re: transformative power as I wedge him into the base of the gravestone. The trees rustle back.
On one side of this cushion cover, your face is framed by happy colours and flattering trims. On the other side, the same photo is transferred onto stained fabric and slashed, ugly, possibly painful items are glommed all around it.
You need:
A photo of yourself, at least 8 by 12 cm Photo-transfer paper, or some other way of getting photo onto fabric. Happy trim and ugly trim Thread and/or glue
1. For the good side, cut a square of nice fabric slightly bigger than cushion to be covered.
2. For the evil side, cut hideous fabric 5 cm longer on one side than nice square. Transfer the photo onto each side.
3. Decorate each side.
4. Slash ugly side (to make opening for cushion).
5. Stitch sides together all way round.
6. Insert cushion through slash, then safety-pin together.
