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Cemetery Hill

The tale of Alisha.

By Mark DoddPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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Cemetery Hill
Photo by Laurentiu Morariu on Unsplash

I’m a part-time gardener. A non-constant gardener if you will. Every Tuesday and Thursday I maintain the local cemetery. And before you pity me, I actually like my job. I get to exercise, stay outdoors and tell jokes like, “I work in the dead centre of town!”. It’s not my dream job, but it's honest work. I’m happier than a lot of the white-collars I see on my morning commute.

Most of my mornings are spent mowing the wide expanse of lawns. I listen to podcasts while I work, and when I get tired of those I’ll play music. When I want to feel particularly macabre, I play Saint-Saëns. It’s oddly enlivening.

Most aspects of my job, you could probably guess. Mow the lawn, trim the hedges, prune the trees, fix the reticulation, you get the picture. But my favourite part isn’t obvious. It’s observing the mourners. After all, mourners are the lifeblood of cemeteries.

From a small glance, I can tell who is mourning for the first time and who is a regular. There is always pain and grief, but it changes shape. At first, it’s numbing. Then it’s searing. And then it’s an ache you can’t rid yourself of. One mourner once told me their grief had turned their world into muted greys, white and blacks.

Over time, you get to know the regulars. And while most of them don’t take notice of a part-time gardener, I like to take notice of them. I keep tabs on them like a professional pundit might keep tabs on racehorses. Ground conditions can affect performance - rain being the biggest factor in determining whether or not they’ll show up.

My favourite mourner is Alisha. In one of our longer conversations, Alisha told me her name means noble in some languages. But she didn’t need to tell me, I could see it. All at once, she had this immense and soft presence. One of those people where you see them and you can immediately feel their warmth envelop you. I would often get goosebumps just by listening to her softly-spoken words.

Alisha is my favourite because she’s there each week, regular as clockwork. She would arrive, unfold her camping chair and sit by the grave of her husband. She would sit and read him poetry, a short story or tell him a joke she found funny that week. She would chuckle constantly. That infectious chuckle of a person who is genuinely happy. You couldn’t help but feel your own cheeks crease into a smile, regardless of your mood.

One day she introduced herself by bringing me a cup of chai. We’d never even spoken to each other and she warmly handed me a cup of chai. “This is good for your soul.” Her eyes danced and I awkwardly nodded and took a sip.

“Thank you”.

“No, thank you for keeping this place so beautiful. I can tell you love your job, the flowers sing your praises”.

That was quite probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.

“I’ll see you next week”.

I nodded again dumbly.

***

From then on, during her weekly visit, she would bring me a cup of chai, or as I now know, ‘Punjabi cha’. At first, we just exchanged basic pleasantries and light commentary on the weather. Over time, it became a regularly scheduled break where I would sit down with her and talk about politics, television shows and of course she would tell me of India, her homeland.

Our most talked about topic was her husband and children. She would spin beautiful stories about their life in Punjab before they came to Australia. Her stories coloured her more and more and I treasured each story and each cup of chai. The stories were so detailed, I could scarcely believe she was just recalling them.

“How do you remember all these things Alisha? I can barely remember what I did on the weekend!”

She looked at me warmly, “I write them down.”

“Like a diary?”

"Of course. Diaries are essential. We need to record what happens, otherwise, it is lost. And I don’t want to lose these parts of me.”

I looked blankly, trying to think of something sensible to say. Nothing came.

“You don’t have a diary?” she interjected.

“Well no. But I don’t have a very exciting life.”

“Every life is exciting and boring. The power of the diary is to only write the exciting bits.”

I still didn’t see much point in it. I’d rather just listen to her stories each week.

***

I should have said at the start that Alisha was my favourite mourner. Two weeks ago, I sat waiting for her, ready for the sweetness of the chai and the delight of a new story. She never appeared. Perhaps she had a car issue? Or a doctor’s appointment? I would have to wait until next week.

The next week she didn’t come. My heart sank. I knew something was wrong. I realised that I never got her contact details. All I had was her first name - Alisha. I felt sick to my stomach. My meeting with her was almost always the best thing to happen to me in any given week. What had happened? My head swirled with grief. Personal, intimate grief. Not observed, abstracted and categorised. My own grief.

I had only known Alisha for a few months but she felt like an integral part of my life. And that part was missing.

***

Yesterday, as I was mowing the far east section of the cemetery, my mobile rang. I ignored it. I always did. It rang again. I stopped the lawnmower and answered.

“Hello, is this Vincent, employee at Cemetery Hill?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Peter. I’m the executor of Alisha’s will.”

My heart plummeted.

“Can I come to the cemetery in the next hour?”

I murmured yes and he hung up after some polite words.

***

Peter was a well put together man. I noticed his glossy hair and the immaculate Windsor knot in his tie. He looks like someone who knew where everything was at all times.

“Alisha is survived by her three children.”

I nod but say nothing as I squirmed slightly in my chair at the gardener’s cottage.

“In her will, she set out clearly her various bequeathments.”

I was still unsure why this man was here.

“One of her bequeathments was to you.”

I was toying with the word be-quea-th-ments in my head before I processed what he meant.

Sensing my delay, Peter clarified, “She has left you three things.”

Three things?

I’m not sure why, but my mind grabbed onto the fact I was left three things, not the extraordinary fact I was left anything at all.

“Quite right. She left you $20,000 and…”

“20k?! I blurted out.

“Quite right. Twenty thousand dollars and these two black notebooks.”

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out two small black notebooks and handed them to me. One was worn. One was brand new.

“And she said to tell you this:

‘Vincent this is my diary. I didn’t get to finish my stories, so to finish, you’ll need to read. I want you to write your own stories. To start, I only ask you to travel to Punjab, to my hometown of Amritsar. Spend time there. Drink more Punjabi cha and hear more stories. And then fill up this new notebook. Your diary.’

As I held the two notebooks, feeling their texture and weight, I felt her there. Goosebumps returned.

“Why?” I asked louder than I intended.

“Why what sir?”

“Why did she do this?”

Peter smiled tightly.

“She said you might ask that. Open the notebook.”

I gently turned the cover of the new notebook. In flowing calligraphy, it read:

To Vincent,

Because you listened and you cared.

In your present, write about the past, for the future.

Blessings,

Alisha.

I sat crying with Alisha's diary and my diary in my lap. Such generosity and such love. It felt unreal. The whole moment felt strangely detached.

“Don’t lose this cheque,” warned Peter as he stood up, “and sign here to acknowledge receipt.”

I signed and he left without saying much more. I turned my head back down to my lap and just stared at the notebooks. I opened Alisha’s diary and started reading.

I realised that she wasn’t truly gone.

She was here.

On these pages.

friendship
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About the Creator

Mark Dodd

Writer from Perth, Western Australia.

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