One Spring Day in May

The blade of the shovel cut through the dirt, releasing the scent of loamy earth into the air. She always loved the springtime, when the trees grew lush with verdant leaves, and the flowers bloomed in shades of red and pink. The air was sweeter, warmer, and provided relief from the cold harshness of winter. But this spring was different. The weight of what she had to do hung in the air like cigarette smoke and made her chest hurt just as badly.

She shoveled the dirt steadily, diligently. She wanted to do it right, squaring the corners as straight as possible. Not all lopsided like she’d seen others do. She lasered her focus on her task, losing herself in the tedium of the constant shoveling.

The sun beamed down from the clear sky, occasionally blocked by the passing clouds. As the tendrils of yellow light beat down on the dying grass, she was thankful that she chose a spot next to the old oak tree. The thick branches were overgrown with large, healthy leaves and cast enough shadow over her to protect her already pock-marked skin from the sun’s harsh rays.

But unfortunately, the tree could do nothing about the heat. As she worked, beads of sweat dripped down her face, stinging her eyes. She had to pause continually to wipe the sweat away from her face and brush back the matted hair from her forehead.

She took a moment to survey her progress. About half done, if she were to adhere to the measurements she found in that old encyclopedia. She knew she could be done quicker if she skimped on the instructions. Hell, she’d probably already be done if that were the case. But she didn’t want to cut corners. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. He deserved that much.

Jamming the shovel into the mound of dirt, she trekked back to the house, trudging through the sun’s domain and up the concrete steps. She smacked at her clothes, knocking loose the dirt and dust that had covered her head to toe. She looked down at her shoes; she hadn’t expected the dirt to be so moist that close to the surface. If she had, she would have worn her old boots, the ones she was going to get rid of anyway. But what’s done is done. She stamped her feet a few times, shaking loose whatever she could before stepping into the house.

The back door opened into the kitchen and, grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she poured herself some lemonade from the refrigerator. She took a sip, draining half of the glass in the process. She topped up the glass before returning the pitcher back to the fridge. She gently closed the door and stared at the picture taped to the fridge door. Her eyes darted between the two faces staring back at her, remembering the days before... Unconsciously, she reached up to her chest and fingered the bulge in her shirt just beneath her sternal notch. She stood like that for minutes, the condensation on the outside of the glass dribbled slowly over her fingers. After a while, she shook herself from her reverie, sipped the lemonade, and headed back outside.

She placed the glass on the top of the steps, wanting to keep it away from the dirt as she worked, and marched back to the hole. Grasping the handle of the shovel, she winced in pain as the wood dug into her palms. She looked at her hands, her fingers and palms now marred with red, raw flesh. Already she could see the blood blisters forming under her skin. But she wouldn’t let the pain stop her. If she didn’t finish today, she’d never finish.

She plunged the blade of the shovel into the earth, scooping up a mound of dirt and tossing it on the pile behind her. It went on like that for another thirty minutes: plunge, scoop, toss. Plunge, scoop, toss. She stood in a hole about four feet deep when the raid sirens broke the quiet of the afternoon.

She froze as klaxons blared around her, so loud that they vibrated the back of her teeth. Her eyes automatically shot to the fence surrounding the house and, through the din of the sirens, she could hear the rhythmic stomping on asphalt.

Grasping the grassy ground, she pulled herself up, cursing as a mini avalanche of dirt tumbled down into the hole. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She needed to get out of sight and quickly.

She ran to the fence, peering over the broken, once-white boards, straining to see through the overgrowth that lined the side of her home. Out in the street, she saw the soldiers in the center of the road marching in time. Left, right, left right, their boots thumped against the hard surface like a metronome of fear and intimidation. The buzz of an engine sounded overhead, and she looked up to see a plane flying low over the neighborhood. It crossed the yard two houses down, far away enough that the pilot couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t if he turned for a second pass.

She pushed away from the fence, rounded the banister of the back porch and launched herself up the steps. She threw open the door and stepped across the threshold, freezing immediately. Voices were coming from her parlor. Deep, resonant voices. Voices she’d never head before.

The troopers were already in her house.

There was a sound of breaking glass followed by a low, guttural laugh. Anger flared in her chest as she imagined the men laughing at her broken belongings. Her cherished memories. But she took a deep breath and slowly backed out of the house, easing the door closed so that it wouldn’t slam shut.

She toed down the steps and across the dead grass, ducking behind the oak tree. She pressed her back to the tree, ignoring the pain of the jagged bark digging into her flesh, and steadied her breathing. Pinching her eyes shut, she clasped her hands tightly in front of her chest and focused on the sounds around her. The plane continued to buzz through the sky, but it was farther away now, likely moved on to the next quadrant. Even the sounds of the troopers’ footsteps seemed to be receding. She began to count in her head, inhaling on the odd numbers, exhaling on the evens. She was going to wait until one hundred before she came out from behind the tree, but at around thirty-seven, she heard a door slam against metal.

Her back door. The soldiers were still in her house.

There was a sound of breaking glass followed by a splash. Glass crunching under boots. Heavy footsteps on dry, dead grass. Her eyes darted to the long, dark shadow creeping up alongside of her. A voice spoke. A different voice, higher in pitch, answered. The two voices spoke in a language she didn’t understand. She froze, afraid to move a single muscle, afraid to even breathe as they stood there, conversing not more than ten feet away from her.

Another voice sounded in the yard, surrounded by the crackle of static. One of the men responded, and soon the footsteps receded. There was a crack of wood breaking, followed by more footsteps. Slowly, the noise ebbed, disappeared completely. But still she remained motionless. It wasn’t until the air was filled with only the tittering of birds did she step away from the tree.

As she emerged from her hiding spot, she saw the shards of broken glass at the bottom of the steps, the lemonade seeping into the grass along the edge of the patio. With a shrug, she picked up the shovel and continued her work. The sun was setting, and she’d already had too many interruptions.

Nearly thirty minutes later, the hole was at an acceptable depth. She climbed from the pit, careful to not knock any more dirt into it, and dusted her hands. She trudged across the yard to a dilapidated shed on the edge of the property and pulled open the double doors.

The sheet-wrapped bundle lay in the center of the shed, its weight causing the old plywood to bow in the middle. She reached down and grabbed the edges of the sheet, dragging it through the doorway. The lifeless form thumped off the wooden plank into the grass and, step by step, she slowly trudged across the yard.

Rounding the oak tree, she carefully laid the bundle on the edge of the hole. Pulling back the blanket, she revealed the face of a man. A man she once loved. A man who died no more than two days earlier protecting her. His eyes and mouth were closed and had it not been for his white, almost transparent pallor, she would assume he was asleep.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she replaced the sheet over his face. Inhaling deeply, she grabbed him by the arm and rolled him into the hole, wincing as his body landed in the dirt with a thud.

She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of dirt across her eyes and cheeks. She rose to her feet and stared down at the sheeted figure at the bottom of the hole. She fidgeted slightly, unsure what to do. She tugged at the hem of her dress, tucked her hair behind her ears, clasped her hands against her stomach.

Looking down, she caught sight of the bulge in her shirt. She teased the thin, golden chain from around her neck and pulled the necklace from the comfort of her blouse. It was a tiny gold locket, given to her by her husband when he asked her to marry him. He was too poor to afford a ring, so instead he bought her the locket. She pinched the clasp and pried the sides apart.

Inside were two photos: one of her and one of him. They both looked so young, before the grey hair and wrinkles settled in. Before the stress of life wore them down. Before the overthrow of the regime and stormtroopers marched through the streets.

The tears came harder now, accompanied by chest-convulsing sobs. She pinched the locket closed and held it at arm’s length, the golden heart dangling at the end of the chain. She opened her grasp and the locket fell into the hole, landing in the dirt beside her husband’s corpse. It glinted in a stray ray of sunshine, reminding her of the way it shined on the day he presented it to her. Through the sniffles, she smiled at the memory.

The sun dipped lower in the sky as she picked up the shovel. Plunging the blade into the pile of dirt next to the oak tree, she lifted a load of soil and upended the shovel over the hole. The air was cooler, and a breeze blew her hair around her face. Little by little, she filled in the hole as memories of her husband played in her mind.