Forgotten

There’s nothing more confronting than seeing your name on a gravestone.

Walter Bradford

1891 - 1934

Beloved husband, father, and friend.

In the fall of 1934, I join the congregation of mourners saying their final goodbyes in a small cemetery by the railway. Awkwardly standing by the polished limestone, I listen as my wife, my Lily, reads her eulogy.

“I… I must admit… I’m lost for words,” she says, holding back an ocean of tears. “Walter had a way with words, always knowing just what to say. You’d think that losing an arm to the war would have changed that, but he only wanted to write more.” A small chuckle ripples across the chairs, followed by fleeting smiles and tearing eyes.

My eyes catch sight of my children. Young Hazel and Thomas, now 12 and 17. How I wish I could let them know that everything would be alright. What force should keep me here, that I may suffer in seeing those I love mourn my memory?

~

The service ends. The chairs are packed away, and a sea of black dresses and suits file into cars. I go to follow Lily, only to be halted by an overwhelming light, confining me to a small area around my grave.

Wait, I call, Lily! Don’t go. But she can’t hear me. How cruel fate is that I must spend eternity with nothing more than 10 feet of grass and my fellow departed neighbours.

~

Weeks have gone by, and I am still here. Extended family and the few remaining army comrades have come to pay their respects. Most stayed for mere minutes, unsure of what to say to a cold headstone and an even colder body beneath them.

“Hello stranger,” a raspy voice calls, “How’ve you been?” I swivel my head around to see a friendly face. Greg Harlows, my best friend who kept me alive in the war, strides down the aisle of green.

Hey Greg, I reply, still dead.

“Still dead aye,” he chortles, seemingly hearing me and unfolding a wooden chair at the end of my plot. “Well, don’t worry. Hope you don’t mind me sitting with you for a bit.”

Be my guest. It’s not like I can do anything about it.

“Come on Wally, we’ve been through worse. I’m sure you can walk it off.” We both laugh. For a moment, I forget about the 6 feet of dirt between us.

We talk until it gets dark, breathing in the nostalgia and out the regrets for all the things we didn’t get to do. Oh, what life could have been.

~

Time flies when you’re dead. Greg still visits me three times a week, but Lily is finding it hard to keep herself together, days growing between visits. I haven’t seen Hazel or Thomas in months, spare New Year’s Eve, and my birthday. How much have they grown? How different they must be.

~

The occasional newspapers blow through the cemetery, one getting caught on a nearby bench. It read:

BRITAIN AT WAR WITH GERMANY

Never in all my afterlife could I imagine another world war. Greg hasn’t visited for the past two weeks. Wherever he may be, dead or alive, may God be with him.

A car pulls up on the road, parking several yards from my aisle. Thomas emerges from the back. He’s grown up to become a handsome young man.

“Hello dad,” he greets, “I don’t have long, I’m leaving soon.” It’s only now that I notice his soldier’s uniform and bag.

Where are you going? Why are you in a uniform? I remember playing soldiers with him when he was a boy, never thinking that it would come to this.

“I’m going to fight for our country. It’s… it’s the right thing to do,” he says, his voice fighting off fear.

No! You’re just a boy. You’re… you’re not ready for a war. My words fall on deaf ears.

“I’m doing it for mum and Hazel. They’re going north where it’s safer.”

You should go with them. It’ll be safer if you… just stay out of it. Both fighting for the right words to say, we fall silent for a moment.

“I hope I make you proud.” My vision fogs with tears as my beatless heart breaks. He salutes, holding his head high, seemingly looking through me. He turns and starts to leave.

You don’t need to go to war! I’m already proud of you. If ever there was a time for my voice to be heard, for my words to transcend time and space, it would be now. As if hearing my call, he stops. Turning back to face me, his eyes full of tears, I take one final look at my son.

“I love you, dad.”

~

The war has everyone in its grasp. I haven’t seen anyone in years, spare a few wandering mourners from the new neighbours. I don’t know what became of Thomas or Hazel or my dear Lily, nor do I know where Greg disappeared to. Perhaps he too was consumed by the war.

The only flowers at my grave are the weeding dandelions, like tiny yellow explosions. My name stares at me as a reminder of who I am; of all I have left.

A train passes by every once in a while, carrying worried faces and anxious shells of what used to be people. I wave to them in a desperate attempt at contact, hoping someone will miraculously notice me and wave back.

No one does.

~

I sit alone in an empty cemetery, the snow falling through my body. How I wish to feel the snow in my hands; to feel cold instead of being cold. Looking up at the sky, I recall people’s belief in God’s grand plan.

Why am I still here? I ask, wondering if anyone will answer. Or has He forgotten about me too?