suddenly have this part of his past staring Andy in the face was like plunging his head in ice water.
According to the marker, Camille died in 1967, Charles in 1969.
Funny that Mom never talked about them, he thought. He knew they had died when his mother was young, before Andy was born, but that’s all. He knelt down. Reached out and touched the headstone.
Maybe it was too painful for Mom to talk about, he thought. She hadn’t talked about Mae either, for that matter. She hadn’t even talk about his father. His own father .
Andy ran his hand along the rough granite slab. He traced their names with his fingers, whispered their names aloud. He felt his throat tighten. There was so much he didn’t know. Why was Edna so silent about them all?
Next to his grandparents’ stone was a small cement slab, its letters weatherworn and hard to decipher. Andy squinted, trying to read it. Cracks ran through it, mixing with the lettering, making it even harder to read. He reached out and felt the slight indentations, trying to read them by feel, as if they were in Braille.
His eyes strained, and his head began to ache from the effort of concentrating on the worn surface, trying to distinguish letters from the cracks.
Finally, he thought he could read the top of the inscription. It said, Buried In Sorrow With Our Tears.
Then the next line - Our Daughter.
And under that - Evelyn Stone 1936 - 1948.
Twelve years old. And next to my grandparents’ grave.
Our daughter? That would mean she was another aunt. One he had never even heard of before.
He straightened up, his back sore from stooping. The sun gained strength through the bare tree branches. Wisps of clouds dotted the sky like emaciated ghosts. There was a small stone building to Andy’s left. Yellow, crumbling stone, held together with rotting mortar. In front, above a rusting, padlocked door was a hole where a small window had once been. Andy figured it to be a tool shed, maybe a place for shovels and lawn care equipment. A caretaker’s shed. He stared at it. Found himself drawn to it. The buzzing of flies emanated from within.
As he neared, the sound grew. Dozens, maybe hundreds of flies. Andy tried looking up into the window, raising himself on his toes. All he saw was darkness.
He stepped closer, sniffing the air, trying to catch any scent of rotting meat in case some animal had crawled in there and died. All he smelled was dust and wet grass.
He stepped closer. Brought his hands up to the empty window hole. It was only about half a foot above his head. He lifted himself up and peered in, into the darkness, the sound of the flies, hundreds of them, mesmerizing him, drawing him closer. The buzzing intensified as he strained to pull himself forward. He struggled to see into the shadows, to peak at the bowels of the stone shed.
A fly buzzed past his head, making its way into the building. Then another. All he was black, but the blackness urged him forward. The buzzing of flies held him in its grip.
A fly landed on his forehead, but Andy didn’t want to let go of the ledge to swat at it. He blinked, hoping the movement of his brow would irritate it into leaving, but no such luck. Andy held his breath, the muscles in his elbows and wrists straining, but he wouldn’t let go. His head started to go through the empty portal of the small deteriorating building, and his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. The pulse in his forehead quickened, the sound of it audible in his ears, playing in time to the lull of the buzzing flies.
And then it spoke.
“Hey, be careful you don’t cut yourself.”
Andy dropped from the window ledge, jumped back and tripped over a headstone.
“Hey!” came the voice again. “Sorry.”
Oh Jesus, Andy thought. It’s someone talking to me. A person, not the building.
A form hovered over him. “Are you okay?” The voice belonged to a woman, robust and earthy. She quickly came into focus, her pleasant curving shape, her long,
According to the marker, Camille died in 1967, Charles in 1969.
Funny that Mom never talked about them, he thought. He knew they had died when his mother was young, before Andy was born, but that’s all. He knelt down. Reached out and touched the headstone.
Maybe it was too painful for Mom to talk about, he thought. She hadn’t talked about Mae either, for that matter. She hadn’t even talk about his father. His own father .
Andy ran his hand along the rough granite slab. He traced their names with his fingers, whispered their names aloud. He felt his throat tighten. There was so much he didn’t know. Why was Edna so silent about them all?
Next to his grandparents’ stone was a small cement slab, its letters weatherworn and hard to decipher. Andy squinted, trying to read it. Cracks ran through it, mixing with the lettering, making it even harder to read. He reached out and felt the slight indentations, trying to read them by feel, as if they were in Braille.
His eyes strained, and his head began to ache from the effort of concentrating on the worn surface, trying to distinguish letters from the cracks.
Finally, he thought he could read the top of the inscription. It said, Buried In Sorrow With Our Tears.
Then the next line - Our Daughter.
And under that - Evelyn Stone 1936 - 1948.
Twelve years old. And next to my grandparents’ grave.
Our daughter? That would mean she was another aunt. One he had never even heard of before.
He straightened up, his back sore from stooping. The sun gained strength through the bare tree branches. Wisps of clouds dotted the sky like emaciated ghosts. There was a small stone building to Andy’s left. Yellow, crumbling stone, held together with rotting mortar. In front, above a rusting, padlocked door was a hole where a small window had once been. Andy figured it to be a tool shed, maybe a place for shovels and lawn care equipment. A caretaker’s shed. He stared at it. Found himself drawn to it. The buzzing of flies emanated from within.
As he neared, the sound grew. Dozens, maybe hundreds of flies. Andy tried looking up into the window, raising himself on his toes. All he saw was darkness.
He stepped closer, sniffing the air, trying to catch any scent of rotting meat in case some animal had crawled in there and died. All he smelled was dust and wet grass.
He stepped closer. Brought his hands up to the empty window hole. It was only about half a foot above his head. He lifted himself up and peered in, into the darkness, the sound of the flies, hundreds of them, mesmerizing him, drawing him closer. The buzzing intensified as he strained to pull himself forward. He struggled to see into the shadows, to peak at the bowels of the stone shed.
A fly buzzed past his head, making its way into the building. Then another. All he was black, but the blackness urged him forward. The buzzing of flies held him in its grip.
A fly landed on his forehead, but Andy didn’t want to let go of the ledge to swat at it. He blinked, hoping the movement of his brow would irritate it into leaving, but no such luck. Andy held his breath, the muscles in his elbows and wrists straining, but he wouldn’t let go. His head started to go through the empty portal of the small deteriorating building, and his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. The pulse in his forehead quickened, the sound of it audible in his ears, playing in time to the lull of the buzzing flies.
And then it spoke.
“Hey, be careful you don’t cut yourself.”
Andy dropped from the window ledge, jumped back and tripped over a headstone.
“Hey!” came the voice again. “Sorry.”
Oh Jesus, Andy thought. It’s someone talking to me. A person, not the building.
A form hovered over him. “Are you okay?” The voice belonged to a woman, robust and earthy. She quickly came into focus, her pleasant curving shape, her long,
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