MPI: Discys 1
Seems less offensive than assuming the dead don’t party.
Miguel romanticized the scenery. The car rolled past large swaths of open field. Bermuda blades gleamed up through the droplets scattered by the storm. It was a beautiful array. Vibrant greens illuminating the rich dirt beneath. The prisms a collection of anxious lives eager for their place in the world. Could such eagerness exist with knowledge of its intended purpose? Perhaps, while in the dirt still, having never tasted the sun, a seedling might consider it ideal, noble even— an end for an end.
“Shouldn’t we be doing this at night with candles and a chicken?” Miguel yelled at Agustina over Stadium Parking Lot.
“It’s not a spell.” Agustina answered. “Besides, chickens are so 1879. Everyone uses rats or pigeons nowadays. Locally sourced of course. It takes a village.” She shot him that bright gleam with scrunched nose that made the guitar more imperious, caused his heart to imitate the frantic drums.
“I don’t think that phrase refers to pest control.”
“Doesn’t it?”
High above were puffs of jovial whites streaming along the rays of a petulant sun. It was like watching celestial bunnies zooming along blue fields after having expressed their needs. Granite and marble stones argued the democracy of death in the speeding shadows beneath. Occasionally, a mausoleum would rise above these to cast its own darkness, an enduring testament that the price of your eternal comfort does indeed matter.
The track ended, Miguel seized on the silent space ringing around them to plant his question. “You don’t worry that going around blaring music about waking the dead might offend someone?”
“You know,” Fabiola began, a quizzical look on her face as she looked out the window. “I don’t think we’ve ever thought about it. Seems less offensive than assuming the dead don’t party.”
“There’s something very godly about death.” Elias chimed in. Feeling the collective turn of heads, he added, “Just in that everyone assumes neither has a sense of humor. Or a sense of fun.”
Rows of crepe myrtle were used to divide the rolling beds into neat sections near the entrance. Lively violets led into playful watermelons, the colors pleasing, easing the eye into spaced cedar elms doing their level best to contend with lavish Mexican plums adding joy to memory. Delving deeper into the cemetery revealed the spreading nature of death. Umbrous appendages reached across the lanes. A light crunch signaled the outlined territory of this or another towering oak. The reach of their branches embraced all who now sought eternal respite within their solemn cover.
They parked next to a gnarled ent twisting to the ground rising in a smooth curve back up. Everyone went into the trunk to take out small notebooks from their bags. It had been decided in the car that since Miguel had never played, he should go with Agustina while Elias and Fabiola split off individually. Miguel had also not paid attention in the car because he started trailing after Fabiola. Agustina called him back from the other direction. He broke into a little trot to build up momentum enough to jump and tag the curve of the giant oak. His finger tips swept by a good half foot beneath the bark, and it was all he could do to not land flat footed. He glanced back once more as he made Agustina’s side. “So is this not a team thing?”
“Not really. Not at all, actually.”
“Is that why Fab and Elias split up?”
“No,” she laughed. “They have different philosophies when it comes to this game. And they are immensely competitive to boot. You know how some couples can’t cook together? They can’t play together.”
“So it should be played alone?”
“You can play alone, but it’s not as fun. They separate for the sake of their relationship, but playing alone is liable to cause more torment than entertainment.”
“How so?”
“You’ll see.”
She led him through a walkway lined with Japanese boxwoods trimmed to the waist. He watched her hand skim the tops. The tips of her fingers gave only a hint of touch, and it seemed the glossy leaves did everything to catch what light breeze there was to rise up to meet them. Suddenly she plunged them to the wrist, decidedly. Soft shuffles fluttered to his ears in time with the bulges that rose. Her fingers had clasped into a fist that broke through tiny currents of brown vine. She withdrew her hand as carelessly as she had plunged it. Tiny scratches glowed against the copper of her skin. A flushed leave clinging to a knick here or there. He tried the same and immediately stabbed himself with a twig. Or something stung him. The bump didn’t feel like a bite as he nursed it with his mouth. He was happy enough to leave it alone and not go in search of revenge.
They turned off the path onto a wide field with ample rows of mostly granite headstones that sat meditatively in ordered fashion. He noticed the crepe myrtles about a hundred yards away and tried to figure out just how long they had been walking. The car wasn’t too far behind them. Behind the curved oak, on either side of the massive trunk, he saw the feint figures of Fabiola and Elias.
Agustina’s face was placid in the sun, a content smile curved her lips softly. He looked around and took in the surroundings. The occasional flat headstone created gaps in the rows of their toothy counterpart giving the landscape the look of a giant maw still in the process of losing baby teeth. Miguel’s eyes wandered from name to name, date to date. The inscriptions fascinated him. Solemn messages imbued with whatever comfort can be offered the dead. The heart wrenching knowledge so intimate that a few words contain their world. He wondered how if any of them had been uttered aloud. He exhaled the phrase como un relampago (not convinced this moment needs to be in Spanish, but it’s worth a go on the scout squad).
“Where?”
“What?”
“You said lightning. Did you see some? I’d heard there was a chance of rain, but it was supposed to be single digits. But then this is also Texas, so single digits, triple digits—who the fuck knows.”
“No, wait, I didn’t see any— it was a line from a eulogy.”
“Who died?”
She put her hand on his shoulder. There was so much sincerity in her face that he felt temptation of mined sympathy lap at his ear. It was a moment of bones glowing against the damp glare of a corrupted desire. To snake his words for an end couldn’t possibly be so bad, if he knew he was more than equal to the task. He swam in the consoling chestnut of her eyes, delving through every corner for the forgiveness he knew he’d have to beg. Even if he conned salvation, there would be no understanding for himself.
“Nobody. Sorry, this is one of those moments where I got ahead of myself in the conversation. I should’ve mentioned that sometimes I write eulogies. Not for fun or anything— absolutely not. In fact, I hate doing it. But I struggle with writing sad. I need to pull from somewhere. It feels desperate sometimes, makes my skin crawl. I swear even the pen wants to pull away.”
“But that’s how you know it’s working.”
“I’d like to think so because the alternative is kind of morbid.”
“I understand. And actually, I’m glad you mentioned that particular little exercise. Means you’ll be more in tune for the game.