Waiting in a World of Marble

            by Emma Claudeanos

 

I walk the halls blindly. It is another day in high school, time spent worrying about what is to come, and suffering from a nostalgia for simpler times. I travel from class to class with the world a blur before me. I take in nothing today, never noticing what lies beneath my feet and in front of my eyes. To put it simply, school days are boring. I crave what lies in the future and refuse to revel in the moment of a terrifically dull lecture on the United States Supreme Court. The walls around me are a putrid gray. The sunbeams outside fight noble battles against sallow shades pulled down to shield the warmth of the rays from my U.S. Government cell. Sick, dry chalk dust floats on the air, as Teacher scrawls endless facts across the blackboard. I copy words numbly onto my yellowing paper. Day in and day out, I suffer the monotony of Tedious High.

For some reason unknown to me this day is significantly worse than most. I wake up at 7:00am, yawn, and wish the world would end. I cannot even bring myself to cut John Doe off with the snooze button as he blares on through my alarm clock about how beautiful the world is. What does he know anyway? The only impetus that wrenches me from my mattress is the desire to save my sick day for a more critical episode.

Fundamentally, this morning is no different than any other. My face wash still smells like oatmeal and honey, the artificially turquoise mouthwash still freshens my breath, and my dry toast, in all its glory, still awaits me on the kitchen table. Except, today I am not careful, and the face cleanser leaks into my eye. I press the palm of my hand to my eyelid, and wait for the sting to subside. I am finally relieved, but my eye glares red and teary.

I swig some mouthwash, accidentally swallowing the most minimal amount. My throat burns, and I spit the liquid out immediately. These signs are surely indicative of a dreadfully bad day. I accept the fact when I discover blackened toast set out on the table for my dining pleasure.

Today is one of the rare days that I do not leave the house on time. I slip into French class four minutes late, thus receiving an, “Arrive a l’heure, s’il te plait!” from Madame. “Pardon,” I reply and take my seat.

The day passes from bad to worse in science class. Apparently I had not studied enough for last Friday’s test, and a big, fat C minus glowers up at me from the paper.

A pounding headache develops during fourth period ceramics, and despite the feeling I attempt to create a box. Halfway through the period, my clay sticks to the table and the doomed vessel collapses between my palms as I pry it from the surface. My head is aching, and I am in a sour mood.

The day is not over, however, and sixth period looms like a black cloud on the horizon. I failed to complete my three-problem homework assignment. Mr. AP Statistics comes around and generously serves points to everyone but me. My frustration escalates as he prattles on about preparation for next Wednesday’s test. I sweat out the last ten minutes of class, chomping at the bit to be allowed out of this hellhole. When the bell rings I want nothing more than to crawl into a cave. My day has built up in to a brick wall of insults upon injuries. Slowly but surely I succumb to the pressure and am left feeling dismally hopeless.    

As I ride home with my mother, my mind wanders back to last weekend, when, for a moment, life was full of the enjoyment of the unexpected. On some Saturdays I am nearly capable of forcing away the bleak reality that hides in the farthest reaches of my mind, but I can never quite stamp it out. In the back of my psyche is the dread of what lies ahead on Monday morning, the essay I failed to finish, the French vocabulary I forgot to memorize, the math test scattered with numbers bearing no apparent meaning in my brain. I question how I can possibly enjoy a second of freedom when I see that, inevitably, the fleeting moment of joy is on the run, constantly just a few steps ahead of me. It never allows my hands to grasp its wrist and drag it kicking and screaming to my side.     

I snap back, and my mother pulls the van into our driveway. I cannot help feeling the weight of the day on my shoulders. I take note of the fact that I never fail to allow the little things in life to faze me, as I kick off my flip-flops and replace my jeans with a pair of shorts.

I cannot say why I go to the cemetery that afternoon. My mother walked there for exercise a few times earlier this year. She was sold on the place the first time she went. My mother always tells me it was amazingly peaceful, and naturally stunning. All I can specifically remember is that I am feeling down, and I need to get out of the house.

I set out expecting the land of the dead to enchant me as Mom had so fervently promised. I travel the four blocks to the gates, and cross the threshold with confidence. The land before me is serene. Feathery leaves flutter from vermillion clouds far above my head, heavenly fall sending her tempest. I step amongst sunrays filtering through tall oaks; dapples of gold caress my shoulders, and the cerulean breeze chases her tail about my head. The world is beautiful.

            Up ahead, through the haze of a lazy afternoon, I casually notice a figure dragging slowly toward me. I greet him sincerely as we pass, knowing that the man, like me, is squeezing every last bit of serenity out of a beautiful day before he will be forced back into his reality. When he leaves this world of engraved marble, his mortality will come rushing back to him. He will understand again what it feels like to fear the inevitable.

            I am left in the wake of his silent breeze, and after the brief confrontation with humanity I surrender happily to my solitude. The smooth pavement moves under my feet as I continue. I watch the path beneath me leading those who choose to follow through the grass and under a terrace of vines laden with the lavender cascades of wisteria still thriving despite the crispness. The eerie shade of the tunnel delights my senses and down from the lilac flowers wafts an airy scent, sweet with the farewells of summer.

            I am walking up the main thoroughfare of the cemetery, yet still, the road is empty. The street is wide. On one side of me rests the columbarium, a building that receives monthly deliveries from the local crematorium. Families pay to have the ashes of loved ones built into marble walls. They leave flowers in metal urns adorning the facades. I have been in this building once before to visit my great grandfather. It is a strange place, empty, void of all natural beauty, but not lacking its own charm. The floors are smooth, and the patters of footsteps echo down the length of the long halls.

            At the moment, though, I am thankful to be just out of reach of the clutches of four walls and a roof. With only the trees above my head I take a deep breath, soaking in the freedom. I reach the end of a bend in the road, and before me unfolds the city that never wakes, row upon row of headstones, some standing upright, some sunken flat into the earth, and others scraping the sky.

            I walk without purpose. After a stretch of time I reach the tallest monument in the cemetery, its shadow cast across the walk and distorted in the jade grass encircling its base. The shrine looms high above me, blotting out the sun. Without the rays to ward them off, cold fingers slide down my back, and I shiver as I read the dedication, “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Rest in peace Cain.” I step to the side, removing myself from the stone’s silhouette.

            Spread out on the hillside above where I stand is a unique section of the burial ground. The manicured turf has come to an end, making way for the overgrowth of the unendowed. Groundskeepers, with clippers in hand, shy from the jungle of tall grasses and ample vegetation. The unendowed are those who lack relatives to bestow a proper burial upon them.  No money is ever sent in to maintain up-keep, replace toppled headstones, or provide a general sense of aesthetic pleasure. Without visitors the section is void of book-definition beauty. In truth, it possesses the wild exquisiteness of nature’s most uncultivated form. I follow the path up the hill, slowly climbing towards the flawless panorama that feels imminent. Through the unendowed section I keep to the path, unable to conquer the fear of what crawls beneath the decomposing foliage dropped from the soaring eucalyptus.

            I reach the summit, and for an instant I marvel at the bay, glistening in the distance. My eyes drop back to the cemetery and travel the length of the skyline where the dwellings of a primeval civilization lie parallel to the rainbow of a sinking sun. The pyramids of Egypt, a gothic cathedral, a French chateau, tower above the less conspicuous mausoleums. Each structure is the cadaver’s abode.

            I move towards these diminutive castles, inspired by their poise.  Elegant flights of marble stairs lead up to chained doors, locked against trespassers. I notice the way cracks weave through the walls, leaving fragments of straying stone scattered along the foundation. The crumbling ruins are reminiscent of antiquities of another world. Time stops, and I am far away.

            The third mausoleum on the right side summons me forth as I curiously observe the broken pane of window glass in the doorframe. Cautiously I mount the stairwell and bring my face toward the opening. A draft of cold air leaps from the inside of the structure, and goose bumps rise from my skin.

            My eyes travel the inside of the room. It is small. A cast-iron bench rests for the weary in the middle of the chamber. Both walls bear engravings, names of the deceased planted behind the facades. On the back wall is a stained glass window depicting, I venture to guess, some biblical scene. What is left of the sunlight streams through the panel casting gilded shadows across the concrete. Once vivid blossoms lie strewn about, their petals long since forgotten and yet to be replaced by the mourner. Silver cobwebs have gathered in corners, and splinters of broken glass litter the floor.

            In the next instant, a sudden, unanticipated shudder courses through me, and I grip the door-handle for support. A skeletal hand has emerged from the dimness, materialized there to steal the moment of tranquil observation, to twist his bony fingers around my instant, and lure life’s anguish form the back of my mind. I take a deep breath, blink, and force the ivory fingers to recede into the blackness. I look up and become aware of the way the dust floats on the air, invisible to the naked eye, except when rays from the sun angle just right through the atmosphere. 

            I turn from the door and trudge down the stairs smiling. The downhill leads me quickly towards the end of my walk. I glance into the sky, and tell myself there is still enough light. The cool, supple grass beckons me, and I choose a spot to sit amongst the marble. I face the expanse of the graveyard, and realize how this hour of my lifetime has been different from others. For once I have forgotten reality’s woes, and I have reveled in the here and now.

            Before me lie the little things, instead of the blur that once dominated my existence. I lay back on the grass, forming a pillow with my arms beneath my head. The back of my hand sinks into a thistle and I jerk away. The fleeting sting disappears slowly from the tender skin, as I inch to the side and settle gratefully onto my back.

            I stare up and notice the way darkness can chase the sun towards a ginger horizon. I notice the first stars twinkling to life against a sapphire sky. I notice the cool breeze rustling the leaves, and the grass, and my hair. I smile, realizing for the first time that I am capable of noticing.