Graveyard
by Martin Toman
I was born in Graveyard; raised here. The town got its name on account of the gift the city councillors gave you when you came of age. When you turned 18, they’d present you with your plot in the cemetery. It was kind of comforting to know where your bones would end up, but there was a catch. You would have to dig your own grave in advance. The custom was to do it on the day you were given your patch. Once you were done, they’d put a cover over the hole to keep it dry. You learnt fairly young to step carefully in the cemetery and going there at night was an invitation to fall into a hole and break a leg.
Our town became something of a tourist attraction. You’d be working your job and people from out of town would ask you where your grave was, where you’d take your long dirt nap. I’d never tell them. I always felt that my grave belonged to me, that it was my place. I called the cemetery tourists grave robbers. Other people from town felt differently. You’d see them standing next to their spot, cheesy grin in place with a tourist who was taking a selfie, sometimes theatrically pointing a finger downwards. When I saw these people hamming it up, I would think about running over and pushing them into their graves, covering them with the mounded dirt next to it, patting it nice and flat with the back of a shovel. Maybe I’m just over-protective of my place in the earth.
That’s how I met Martha. My grave brought us together. At the time I was working for the town council, cleaning Graveyard’s common spaces. I’d spend the day driving a truck from place to place, blowing leaves, or erasing graffiti, keeping the mayor and the various councillors from getting complaints that Graveyard was anything other than perfect.
I saw Martha in five different places that day. It wasn’t like she was inconspicuous. Tall, dark haired, slender. A red cardigan, a floral summer dress. I noticed her in the central park sitting on a bench writing in a journal, then in the library gardens, standing outside the gelato store, eating in a café, and then finally in the cemetery. My last call of the day was to collect the trash that tourists had left by the gravesites, food wrappers, crystals, candles and other nonsense, other bits of junk. Martha was leaning on the fence, her journal open, writing where she stood. I walked the perimeter first, staking pieces of garbage before venturing into the cemetery proper. Even with a pretty girl watching I knew better than to be distracted. I didn’t want to end up in someone else’s hole.
“So, what’s a girl got to do to see a boy’s hole these days?”
I turned around. The sun was settling into the golden hour behind her, almost giving her a full body halo. She smiled, held out her hand. Part of me wished I was carrying a leaf blower so I could lift her dress and see her panties, but I held out my hand instead and shook hers.
“I don’t just show anyone my grave, you know.”
“But you have one; you’re a local?”
“Yeah, I do.” I waved my arm vaguely towards the other side of the cemetery. “Over that way.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, what’s a girl got to do to see a boy’s hole these days?”
I laughed, even though I hated the grave robbers. I had the presence of mind to know that if Martha wasn’t pretty, wasn’t wearing a floral dress, and wasn’t standing with the sun behind her then I would probably have wished her a good day and finished my shift, but a pretty girl can sometimes make you bend your principles.
“I tell you what: I’ll finish up for the day and then if you have dinner with me, we can eat dessert by the side of my grave.”
Talk about an offer too good to refuse. I’m still surprised she said yes.
It might disturb you to know that from time to time I visit my grave, pull the cover off, and climb inside. I like to lie on the cold earth and look up at the rectangle of sky above me. Sometimes, it’s a clear blue, sometimes, it’s grey. Sometimes, I even do it at night. I open and close my eyes, the night sky disappearing and reappearing with the movement of my eyelids.
An hour or so after we split the bill at dinner Martha, and I lay side by side at the bottom of my grave. The stars blazed above us, the burning suns of a million galaxies tracing an arc across the sky. Our shoulders and elbows pressed against each other, our discarded clothes lying at the edge of the grave; the floral dress, the red cardigan. The air and earth felt cold, but where we touched the sensation was warm and alive.
It wasn’t long until we got married. We were going to do it anyway, but we thought we should before she started to show. The town gave her a plot next to mine when she became a citizen of Graveyard. I watched her dig her hole, neatly piling the dirt in the space that would separate us when we passed. As she disappeared her way into the ground, the scoops of dirt flying over the edge, I looked at my own gravesite, the place where my flesh and bones would be consumed by the soil. And I remembered the day we met, how we became a couple, all the things that happened that night.
It still makes me smile. In the place where everything that is me will become something else and disappear, there was a moment someone was created. Life born in death, a spark in the darkness, a star igniting in the cosmos.
Our town became something of a tourist attraction. You’d be working your job and people from out of town would ask you where your grave was, where you’d take your long dirt nap. I’d never tell them. I always felt that my grave belonged to me, that it was my place. I called the cemetery tourists grave robbers. Other people from town felt differently. You’d see them standing next to their spot, cheesy grin in place with a tourist who was taking a selfie, sometimes theatrically pointing a finger downwards. When I saw these people hamming it up, I would think about running over and pushing them into their graves, covering them with the mounded dirt next to it, patting it nice and flat with the back of a shovel. Maybe I’m just over-protective of my place in the earth.
That’s how I met Martha. My grave brought us together. At the time I was working for the town council, cleaning Graveyard’s common spaces. I’d spend the day driving a truck from place to place, blowing leaves, or erasing graffiti, keeping the mayor and the various councillors from getting complaints that Graveyard was anything other than perfect.
I saw Martha in five different places that day. It wasn’t like she was inconspicuous. Tall, dark haired, slender. A red cardigan, a floral summer dress. I noticed her in the central park sitting on a bench writing in a journal, then in the library gardens, standing outside the gelato store, eating in a café, and then finally in the cemetery. My last call of the day was to collect the trash that tourists had left by the gravesites, food wrappers, crystals, candles and other nonsense, other bits of junk. Martha was leaning on the fence, her journal open, writing where she stood. I walked the perimeter first, staking pieces of garbage before venturing into the cemetery proper. Even with a pretty girl watching I knew better than to be distracted. I didn’t want to end up in someone else’s hole.
“So, what’s a girl got to do to see a boy’s hole these days?”
I turned around. The sun was settling into the golden hour behind her, almost giving her a full body halo. She smiled, held out her hand. Part of me wished I was carrying a leaf blower so I could lift her dress and see her panties, but I held out my hand instead and shook hers.
“I don’t just show anyone my grave, you know.”
“But you have one; you’re a local?”
“Yeah, I do.” I waved my arm vaguely towards the other side of the cemetery. “Over that way.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, what’s a girl got to do to see a boy’s hole these days?”
I laughed, even though I hated the grave robbers. I had the presence of mind to know that if Martha wasn’t pretty, wasn’t wearing a floral dress, and wasn’t standing with the sun behind her then I would probably have wished her a good day and finished my shift, but a pretty girl can sometimes make you bend your principles.
“I tell you what: I’ll finish up for the day and then if you have dinner with me, we can eat dessert by the side of my grave.”
Talk about an offer too good to refuse. I’m still surprised she said yes.
It might disturb you to know that from time to time I visit my grave, pull the cover off, and climb inside. I like to lie on the cold earth and look up at the rectangle of sky above me. Sometimes, it’s a clear blue, sometimes, it’s grey. Sometimes, I even do it at night. I open and close my eyes, the night sky disappearing and reappearing with the movement of my eyelids.
An hour or so after we split the bill at dinner Martha, and I lay side by side at the bottom of my grave. The stars blazed above us, the burning suns of a million galaxies tracing an arc across the sky. Our shoulders and elbows pressed against each other, our discarded clothes lying at the edge of the grave; the floral dress, the red cardigan. The air and earth felt cold, but where we touched the sensation was warm and alive.
It wasn’t long until we got married. We were going to do it anyway, but we thought we should before she started to show. The town gave her a plot next to mine when she became a citizen of Graveyard. I watched her dig her hole, neatly piling the dirt in the space that would separate us when we passed. As she disappeared her way into the ground, the scoops of dirt flying over the edge, I looked at my own gravesite, the place where my flesh and bones would be consumed by the soil. And I remembered the day we met, how we became a couple, all the things that happened that night.
It still makes me smile. In the place where everything that is me will become something else and disappear, there was a moment someone was created. Life born in death, a spark in the darkness, a star igniting in the cosmos.
Martin Toman is a writer of contemporary fiction who lives in Melbourne, Australia. He studied at the Australian National University and the University of Canberra before becoming a teacher of English Literature. Martin has been published online and in print, and recently in publications such as Big City Lit, Minute Magazine, Across the Margin, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fresh Ink, The Raven Review, Haunted Waters Press, The Adelaide Literary Review, and Literally Stories.