The Graveyard Shift
Ginger
Graveyards were my favorite place to go after class. So many stories and residents I would never know. I loved to visit different ones in the area and I think my love grew after I somehow had enough money to buy Ginger. Ginger was my grungy orange two door car. I wasn’t very creative with car names, but Ginger was definitely a girl. My parents usually worked until late so I let the unkempt grass of local cemeteries see to it that I actually did all my homework on time.
My favorite pastime was searching for the oldest gravestones I could find. The ones with no family and the ones that didn’t get flowers often, if at all. I usually gathered some flowers on my way to the cemetery for my new found homework guardian. If there is one thing the dead love; it’s flowers—or at least I hope so because I bring them a lot of flowers.
Today I sat beside a woman named Ethel Waters. She died over 75 years ago and the grass around her grave showed the age. I was able to spread a blanket out on the grass in front of her; it’s pretty dry here. I put the flowers beside her moss-covered gravestone, and sat on the checkered blanket I’d put in front of the stone. I pulled out my math homework and began to pick through the problems.
“Hello Ethel,” I said while looking down at my calculator—the answer to problem forty-three was 1.898. “So I have a lot of homework today; math, reading, and I have a test on Friday that I have to study for. School is kind of annoying at the moment, but I am trying to push through it all. I am in the 11th grade in case you were wondering.”
I think I loved the sound of my own voice—or maybe I just wanted people to care about my life somehow, even if they were deceased. I pushed through the remaining math problems and read from my English book about Edgar Allan Poe and his cask of amontillado. Most people would be creeped out by reading about death in a cemetery—but I found it mildly relaxing.
The overcast sky began to become ever more present and the graying and pouring of the clouds were becoming pretty inevitable so I said my goodbyes to the stone that marked Ethel’s life and I got inside of Ginger. On the way home it poured a sheet of heavy rain. It was the kind of weather wherein you think about life and all the things that you want to happen. I didn't get around to doing that over the sound of 90s alternative rock music blaring in the speakers of my car. While Nirvana washed out the sound of the rain I made the forty-five minute trip back to my house.
The house was empty even when it was filled. It had an off-white exterior, from wear and tear, which I was thankful for as it was the only touch of a home this place seemed to have. The only hint of a family living here was a barely used welcome rug and a single six year old family portrait in the living room. My room was loosely decorated with a lava lamp and some magazine clippings, but you can’t make every place feel like home—or so I’ve found out.
I dropped my bags off in my room and made my way into the kitchen to think about life over a fried bologna sandwich. Oscar Meyer—you’re bologna isn’t really that great, I just thought I’d let you know. In a lot of ways bologna is like life—not quite amazing, but it will suffice until you can move on to greener pastures. I don’t have steak for dinner, and I visit graveyards to feel love. The hardest thing to tell someone is to show love, not provide it.
My favorite pastime was searching for the oldest gravestones I could find. The ones with no family and the ones that didn’t get flowers often, if at all. I usually gathered some flowers on my way to the cemetery for my new found homework guardian. If there is one thing the dead love; it’s flowers—or at least I hope so because I bring them a lot of flowers.
Today I sat beside a woman named Ethel Waters. She died over 75 years ago and the grass around her grave showed the age. I was able to spread a blanket out on the grass in front of her; it’s pretty dry here. I put the flowers beside her moss-covered gravestone, and sat on the checkered blanket I’d put in front of the stone. I pulled out my math homework and began to pick through the problems.
“Hello Ethel,” I said while looking down at my calculator—the answer to problem forty-three was 1.898. “So I have a lot of homework today; math, reading, and I have a test on Friday that I have to study for. School is kind of annoying at the moment, but I am trying to push through it all. I am in the 11th grade in case you were wondering.”
I think I loved the sound of my own voice—or maybe I just wanted people to care about my life somehow, even if they were deceased. I pushed through the remaining math problems and read from my English book about Edgar Allan Poe and his cask of amontillado. Most people would be creeped out by reading about death in a cemetery—but I found it mildly relaxing.
The overcast sky began to become ever more present and the graying and pouring of the clouds were becoming pretty inevitable so I said my goodbyes to the stone that marked Ethel’s life and I got inside of Ginger. On the way home it poured a sheet of heavy rain. It was the kind of weather wherein you think about life and all the things that you want to happen. I didn't get around to doing that over the sound of 90s alternative rock music blaring in the speakers of my car. While Nirvana washed out the sound of the rain I made the forty-five minute trip back to my house.
The house was empty even when it was filled. It had an off-white exterior, from wear and tear, which I was thankful for as it was the only touch of a home this place seemed to have. The only hint of a family living here was a barely used welcome rug and a single six year old family portrait in the living room. My room was loosely decorated with a lava lamp and some magazine clippings, but you can’t make every place feel like home—or so I’ve found out.
I dropped my bags off in my room and made my way into the kitchen to think about life over a fried bologna sandwich. Oscar Meyer—you’re bologna isn’t really that great, I just thought I’d let you know. In a lot of ways bologna is like life—not quite amazing, but it will suffice until you can move on to greener pastures. I don’t have steak for dinner, and I visit graveyards to feel love. The hardest thing to tell someone is to show love, not provide it.