Coming into Focus

We met that night in the graveyard.

I’d snuck out of the house to go smoke with my friends in the graveyard.

We sat in the grass, leaning against the headstones, making up stories about how everyone died. I took full advantage of the captive audience. Hopping on top of a memorial bench, I called out, “Behold the tale of Harold Drammer, the farmer who dreamed of drumming.

“He spent his time walking out to the fields tapping on the fence posts with a wrench he kept in his pocket.” I flung cigarette ash about as I mimicked my made-up farmer.

“One day, a sunny day like any other, he was walking out to the field to check on the cows he’d just bought and put to pasture. Forgetting he’d also had a new fence installed to corral those cows, he started banging a rhythm on the fence posts like he always did.

“His right foot slid into a hole in the ground, and he stumbled. His wrench missed the post and hit the fence wire.” I paused for the perfect dramatic effect.

“The now electrified fence wire.

“The farmer shook as the energy coursed through him looking for ground. He dropped the wrench and tried to head back to the barn for help. Instead, he got his directions confused and ran towards the harvest fields.”

Pause again, and… “Where he got killed by a combine harvester.”

I chuckled to myself as I took a seat on the ground next to Kylie. She was hugging her knees and leaned away from me.

“What’d you think?” I asked her.

“I’m glad the cows are okay,” she replied.

“The cows? I killed a whole farmer with a combine harvester, and you’re worried about the cows?” I laughed hard, letting the other four people there know they should laugh too in case they hadn’t heard how funny I was being.

“Animal death isn’t funny!” shrieked Kylie. She jumped to her feet, smacking me in the face with her blonde ponytail. She stormed toward the cemetery driveway where she’d left her bike.

“Here lies Spot,” I said, “He was a good boy.” I called out to Kylie to relax, but then Athena stood up and kicked my foot.

“Her dog died yesterday, you insensitive jerk.” She headed for her car, and the rest of the group followed. Guess she was their ride.

I climbed onto the bench that made such a great stage and sat, waiting for my friends to come back.

It was early Spring, so even though the days were warm, the nights still got pretty wet and chilly. I hugged my sweater close around my body as the stone I sat on pulled all the heat out of my butt.

From behind me, a weird buzzing voice said, “They’re not coming back.”

I turned to my left so fast, I fell off the bench. The knees of my jeans quickly soaked through. My palms were itchy from the fresh cut grass. I pressed myself up to my feet. Turning a circle, I sought the buzzing voice.

Eight rows behind me, a tall, slender figure leaned against the massive family marker for the Blood family. I always avoided their family plot since my grampa said the patriarch got the name being a cutthroat sea pirate.

“What did you say?” I raised my voice. I wanted them to hear me without me having to get closer. Stranger danger and all that.

They brought a plastic kazoo to their pale face and buzzed at me again. “They’re not coming back.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shuffled my feet. Wet knees and a cold butt was getting to me. “They’re my friends. We’ll have lunch tomorrow, and it’ll be fine.”

The figure stood straight, but there must have been a fog rising because I couldn’t see them clearly. The features were fuzzy. Pale, pale skin and dark clothes.

Then the kazoo again. “They’re not coming back. Doo doo doo.”

I was standing in a cemetery. Ditched by my so-called friends. Being mocked by a stranger.

I didn’t have to take that.

“Peace out, dude.” I flipped the stranger the bird and headed home.

We were properly introduced in that park at dusk.

It had been three months since the cemetery incident. Kylie had forgiven me. Everyone else got over it. Friends again as it should be.

We’d been hanging out at the park as a group all afternoon. The sun was setting, and the others wanted to get home for dinner. I wasn’t ready to go home. My parents were there.

Across the park, in front of a set of trees, I saw my favorite teacher from middle school. Senior year started in the fall. One of the requirements was volunteer work, and Mom was on me about actually applying my energy toward my future. I thought maybe I could volunteer for Mrs. Burris. Her vibe was always soothing.

I took off across the park at a jog. “Mrs. Burris! Hey, wait up!”

She turned, surprised to see me. Though looking back, I think she was more surprised I saw her.

She was walking with a tall, handsome stranger dressed in dark jeans and a black dress jacket with gray pinstripes. Their skin was beyond pale and was bordering on, “are you the ghost of Nicole Kidman’s dead kids in The Others?” pale.

“Hey, haven’t we met?” I asked them.

They ignored me, instead choosing to play random notes on a tin whistle. The kind you win at the arcade when you suck at skeeball. The notes were tinny and flat.

If they were trying for a song, I didn’t recognize it.

“Oh, hello,” said Mrs. Burris. She hadn’t changed in four years. Her smile still made the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkle. It was how you knew she meant it when she smiled at you. “This is my friend. They’re escorting me home.”

“But don’t you live on like the other side of town?” I asked.

“I used to. Yes.” Mrs. Burris looked up at the sky. The sun hadn’t quite set yet and a single star shone low on the horizon. “It’s a beautiful night for a walk.” She gave a heavy sigh, reached out to squeeze the stranger’s hand, then walked into the trees. Within three steps, she was gone.

I shook my head, disappointed I didn’t get to ask about the apprenticeship. “Okay that was weird.”

The stranger replied with a few flat notes.

“Is that your thing then? You play weird instruments and act all creepy?”

They tucked the whistle into the inside pocket of the suit jacket. “How am I creepy?” Their voice was higher than I expected. They stood a full head taller than my average height.

“The kid toys.” I headed back to see if my friends were still there. “You know you’re being creepy,” I threw over my shoulder.

They followed me, keeping a polite distance. “How did you know her?”

“She was my history teacher.”

“Was she a good teacher?”

I slowed down, letting them catch up. “I think she’s a great teacher.”

“I am also a great teacher.” They were keeping pace with me now just over an arm’s width from my side.

“What do you teach?”

“Forgiveness. Kindness. Inevitability.”

“Sounds random, but that’s cool. Not really a class in school though, is it?”

“Would you keep me company awhile while I play?” They pulled the whistle from their pocket.

I should have been unnerved. I was being followed by someone I didn’t know. I hadn’t invited them to walk with me. I was alone in a deserted park with someone I wasn’t familiar with.

The thing was though, I wasn’t scared. Mrs. Burris called them friend. She was so calm when she headed home through the trees. If this was someone to worry about, she would have let me know. I could trust her judgment.

“Tell you what. I’m gonna go swing for a while. You can play or not. Sound good?”

They put the tin whistle to their lips and played a random series of flat, metallic notes. I sat on a swing and pushed off. I thrust out my legs, leaning back, waiting for the feeling. I went higher. A little higher. Back and then up with my toes pointing to the sky.

There it was. The drop and stomach flutter as my body started to fly then crashed back down to reality.

I swung just high enough to feel the drop as the stranger played random notes on their metal toy. I must have stayed for an hour or more. When I finally slowed the swing to stand on my own two feet again, the night sky was full of stars and the stranger was silently watching them.

“It was nice getting to know you,” they said.

“Really? I don’t even know your name.”

“You will.” They walked away in the direction of the trees and Mrs. Burris’ new home.

We nearly missed each other in that parking lot.

Mom had sent me to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I forgot the reusable shopping bags. Again. As I loaded the plastic bags in the trunk, I told myself we would use them for cleaning the cat box, and it’d be okay.

I was in a hurry. I had a date to meet at the diner on the other side of town at six. Mom knew I had somewhere to be, but I didn’t go the store yesterday like she asked.

It wasn’t my fault though. I got busy and forgot. It happens. This was my way to make it up to her.

I slung the last of the groceries in the trunk, slammed it down, and climbed in. I slapped on a seatbelt and threw the car in reverse.

The Suburban was cruising down the lane too fast.

Music blasted through my speakers the instant my phone synced with the car stereo, drowning out the horn.

I turned my head and saw the rolling death machine coming right for my door.

Motivated by pure panic, I slammed the car into drive and lurched back into the parking space.

The screeching tires of the Suburban sent the stench of burning rubber through the car vents.

The owner of the Suburban leapt out of his vehicle and charged toward my car. I locked the doors. The window stayed rolled up. My hands clenched around the steering wheel. My gaze focused nowhere but directly ahead of me.

He pounded on my window. On the roof. Kicking the door, he demanded I come out and face him. Many, many obscenities left his mouth as he assaulted my car, but I could not engage. I made a mistake, but nobody got hurt. If this guy would just let it go, I could get home and still have time to change out of these clothes now drenched in panic sweat.

As I feared his fist was going to break the safety glass of my car window, I heard a new voice. It was soft, and I couldn’t really make out the words. Curious at who would approach what sounded like a rampaging behemoth, I took a peek out the corner of my eye. The yellow leaves that had fallen on my car the night before were plastered to the wet glass in the perfect formation to block the new stranger.

Whatever they said worked, and the white rage monster got back in his Suburban and left.

I put the car in park. The doors unlocked.

All that time, I’d been holding my leg straight against the brake pedal, terrified to move. There was a car parked in front of me, and his Suburban had been sitting behind me. I’d had nowhere to go, but I couldn’t put the car in park. I couldn’t be that vulnerable.

A light tapping on the window made me finally turn my head.

Standing next to my car was a beautiful, willowy stranger, unnaturally pale, with a mop of dark brown curls. Their dark, dark brown eyes were wideset, round, open and friendly.

They smiled at me. “You should get out and stretch for a minute. That was a close call.”

My leg twitched with the tension in my muscles. Standing for a minute would be a good idea. “Do you mind backing up?” I asked through the glass.

They stepped back, then side stepped around the car next to me and stood on the other side of it. From the breast pocket of their black jacket with grey pinstripes, they pulled out a handmade flute. They leaned against the SUV behind them and began playing a jaunty tune in an ominous key.

I got out of my car and took a deep breath (as my mom would say) deep down to the belly. I hated how right she was that five deep belly breaths calmed me down.

Deep breath number three, and I swear I recognized that song. The flute they played was weird. It was yellowed and worn with age. The thing was obviously an antique, but the sound didn’t seem like wood. The roundness of the flute, and the strange color added to the ominous feeling of the song played in a minor key.

I exhaled deep breath number five, and I felt better. I shook out my legs and nodded to the stranger. A thank you for sending the angry man on his way. A thank you for suggesting I calm down before driving home. A thank you for putting an entire car between us, so I could relax outside my comfort zone.

I admired their long, wool scarf striped in beautiful grays and blues when a flash of a memory hit me.

“You had a tin whistle last time,” I said.

“Have you been back on a swing?” they asked.

The question struck me with an unfathomable sadness I felt in my bones. A cool breeze blew across the back of my neck, pushing the feeling away. More rain on the horizon. Overnight rain makes it easier to fall asleep. It gives my brain something else to focus on.

They played that song again. “What is that? I know that song.”

“It’ll come to you.” They smiled and tucked the flute back in their pocket. “You were in an awful hurry a little bit ago.”

My date! The groceries! Ah!

I threw up a quick goodbye wave and got back in the car. This time, I made sure to turn around and confirm there was nothing behind me before backing out.

All the way home, I hummed the tune I couldn’t get out of my head.

We became friends that morning at the cemetery.

Grampa had lived a long life. He’d been sick. We all knew the end was coming, but it didn’t make his passing any less sad.

The funeral was a small thing. Most of the family lived out of state. They’d all be at the memorial dinner next week. Mom wanted a few words said at the cemetery. He was her dad, and it was what she needed. Dad and I made it happen.

Their pastor said some nice words, but then he started going on about his rules for salvation which got under my skin. Don’t use this moment of my sadness to guilt me into thinking what you want or changing what I believe.

Just let me be sad. Damn.

I’d driven separately. I figured I’d be ready to leave long before Mom was, but it ended up being the other way around. She was cried out and asked Dad to take her home to get a nap. She was exhausted. I was a little tired, but not ready to leave. I gave both my parents a hug, and then I was alone in the cemetery.

Except I wasn’t alone.

“Hello again,” they said in their soft voice. They stood two graves over. The first thing I noticed was they didn’t fog the biting winter air. I’d swear their voice was an octave lower than our conversation at the park. Maybe they had a cold.

“Are you really here?” This stranger kept popping up, but only when I was alone. If movies have any grain of truth to them, it’s when you’re alone that your hallucinations start becoming your friend.

They chuckled. A low, deep sound in their chest that made my skin tingle. It was a warm thing in this cold world.

“I am here. I am always close.”

“You’re stalking me?” Now I was nervous. Strangers saying they’re always there is creepy. I took a step backward.

“I hate when people say I stalk. I’m just there. All things must end.” They reached into their suit jacket and impossibly pulled out an ebony violin polished to shine in the sunlight.

“Do I know you?” It shouldn’t have been the question I asked. I shouldn’t have asked any more questions. I should have gone home, but… I had come to know them. Their name sat on the tip of my tongue. Yet I would not say it. I could not say it.

“You know me better than some your age, but not as well as others.” They set the violin to their chin and strung a long, high, clear note with the bow. “Some much younger than you know me better than any elder could hope to. It is the way of your world.”

They played a flourish of notes warming up the instrument. It was beautiful, but haunting.

Then the notes shifted, and they played the song. The notes danced across the air, bouncing along gravestones, inviting the souls to dance. It was playful, joyous, and full of childlike wonder.

When they reached the chorus, my memory found the words.

With a knick-knack

Paddy-whack

Give a dog a bone

This old man

Came rolling home

They paused playing a moment to reach into their jacket again. Out came the flute they played in the parking lot. Holding it out to me, they asked, “Care to play?”

I took the flute and held it in my hands. I’d been right. It wasn’t wood. This was a bone flute. One of my classmates had done a report on ancient instruments. There was something about humanity always having stories and songs long before the written word existed.

“Is this human?” I can’t help but ask before I put it to my lips.

“Does it matter?” they non-answer.

I sighed because it really didn’t. I was going to join the song. It’s what you do when you’re invited to play.

It took me a little bit to find the notes. I played saxophone in sixth grade. The fingerings were close.

They struck that beautiful, long note that broke the sky in twain again. Then, the song was all there was. We played together and the cemetery danced around us.

I closed my eyes to better feel the music, and in that moment of darkness, I felt them come.

I was even less alone than before.

My eyelids refused to stay shut. Lifting of their own accord, they exposed my eyes to the hidden world around me.

Souls danced among the graves, delighting in the song more than I did. I played louder, stronger, wanting to send the song out to every corner of the cemetery. I would wake every sleeper and let them join the revelry.

For one who was very loved had joined them this day, and we would delight in his memory.

We played, and they danced. Time stopped, and I became this moment. I planned to have many years ahead of me, but I never wanted this moment to end. I never wanted to stop seeing this world and feeling this reality.

I didn’t want to go back to the sadness. I wanted to live in the joy. I wanted to be this joy.

From somewhere behind a great oak at the far end of the cemetery came a shaggy mongrel dog. She had no specific breed, and her unkempt coat showed she had no specific home. She trotted up to me and sat at my feet.

I looked down at her looking up at me. She made no sign to move. No panting. No doggy smile. She sat before me, waiting for me to understand.

My arms dropped to my sides, and I stopped playing the song. “No. I’m not ready.”

She looked to the violinist who was still playing. They softened the notes, pulling the song back into our orbit.

“You will never be ready. You must accept that.”

I tried to return to the song. The flute refused to play the notes I wanted.

My part of the song was over.

“Do you have to go?” I asked them. We’d become friends now. They knew me, and I trusted them. We could get closer now that I wasn’t afraid.

“I am always close. You’ll see.”

The dog put her forepaw on my knee. She looked up at me, and I understood what she wanted. I held out the bone flute to her. She grasped it lightly between her teeth and stood.

Turning away from me, she headed back across the cemetery the way she’d come.

The song still played as the musician followed the dog away from me and over the hill.

As the final notes rang out among the tombstones, I caught a glimpse of a third body with them. A one-legged man, rolling himself along in his wheelchair, happy to take the path back to his wife.