The Gravekeeper
Kasia Beloussov
The line was less of a proper queue and more of a physical representation of the wobbly walking path of a drunkard. You would think they would be better at it by now. But, considering the uneven forest ground, and the fact that it was made by young children with little instruction, it would have to do.
“Alright my darlings. Alright.” The overseer knelt to their level, wine-dark skirts puddling around her. She reached into her wicker basket and pulled out this month’s flower, lilies with silky white petals. “Here you are. Place it where it belongs.”
The child in front of her grinned with an incomplete set of teeth and bright eyes. He grabbed the flower and ran off into the graveyard. The overseer smiled gently as she watched him go.
She handed out another flower. And the next. And again. Thirty-seven flowers for thirty seven little helpers, making thirty-seven gravestones a little cheerier in their forgotten states. A shame how no one ever visited the graves.
Perhaps she was a little biased as the overseer, but it was a beautiful site. Bright lichen clung to every dark oak, and tiny mushrooms dotted the edges of each granite headstone. It would be quiet, if not for the sound of giggling and uncontrolled laughter as the children replaced the flowers.
The overseer watched the youngest of them walk circles, his confused mug as innocent as a buttercup. He ran back to her and pulled at her heavy skirts.
“Do you remember where to go, Michael?” She asked softly, taking his hand. He shook his head.
As they walked away together, the overseer watched the children sprinting all about, dropping to the ground and springing back up. They moved with the naïve confidence that children always have, like they have looked Death in the face and smiled. They run like they are unafraid of falling.
Michael pulled on her dress and she turned to see his grave. Small but clean. Forgotten but well-loved. Michael placed the lily on the ground and picked up last month’s flower: an orange rose that has since withered dry. The overseer felt the petals crinkle softly as he placed it in her hand.
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“I will see you next month, my dear.” She tucked a wispy white strand of hair behind his ear and laid a gentle kiss on his cold forehead.
As soon as her lips left, he was gone.
Some might say she was alone, but anyone that had an ear for the strange could hear them. There was high pitched laughter in the bird songs, and hurried footsteps in how the wind cut through the trees.
The gravekeeper could always hear them. And once a month, she could see them as well.
- Kasia Beloussov