There is a sound. I can hear it, but I cannot identify it. It’s not the muffled “thump” of my feet on the muddy path nor the rustling of leaves or the hum of passing cars in the nearby street. It isn’t caused by the birds in the trees or the squirrels on the ground. And it has nothing to do with the low chatter of other people around me. I don’t know if there is a real cause for it. It’s just there. Right here. And only here. And its name is silence.
The thought is suddenly there and it doesn’t feel as absurd as it probably should. This is a churchyard after all so it does make sense for silence to take residence here. I know my thesis is a very shaky one, but before I get the chance to continue my train of thought, the church-bells start ringing and the silence is gone. As is my thesis. I shake my head and walk on, a smile starting to form on my face. Then I see them.
The vicar.
And a man and a woman.
And a fresh grave.
Just two rows of graves from where I’m standing. I’ve almost walked into an ongoing funeral. Not sure where to go or what to do I just stay where I am. The vicar says something, but I can’t make out the words. The man and the woman are pale and silent. From time to time the woman turns and desperately scans the path leading from the church to the site of the grave.
But there is no one there.
The woman turns her eyes back on the grave, defeated and tired and sad.
After only a few seconds she repeats the procedure, this time widening the range of her search to include the paths around the church.
There’s so much pain in her gaze. So much longing. So much sadness. And it’s coming towards me. Before I can move or even avert my face, her eyes lock with mine. In horror I keep contact for a split second, then look away. I feel ashamed and it’s not for intruding on a very private moment. It’s for knowing that the woman was hoping to see someone else caring for the deceased, a friend, a co-worker, a lover, someone to show up and let her know that her loved one hadn’t been alone in this world. For a second I catch myself wondering if I should go and just pretend. But I don’t. These things only work in books or movies. This is neither a book nor a movie.
Finally I manage to look up again and give the woman – what I hope is – an understanding and apologetic smile. She looks at me for another second, then I see something like understanding in her eyes – or at least I tell myself it is.
The vicar has finished his speech and turns to the couple, blocking my view.
“Sad, isn’t it?”
I nod, not turning round, still watching the funeral.
“Always is”, I mumble. “But the loneliness of this one….”
And suddenly it’s there. The words haven’t even left my tongue when it starts. Pain. So sharp and deep that it threatens to tear me apart. My vision goes blank for a second, as I can feel my soul being squeezed by a mighty, brutal force, so hard that a small sob escapes my throat. And old wound is ripped open and my soul starts bleeding. I can feel something wet and salty on my face. I cry.
A hand on my shoulder tries to break through the cloud of despair that has suddenly enveloped me.
“It won’t be like that”, I hear a quiet whisper. The hand presses my shoulder reassuringly. It’s meant as a promise, as a comfort, but it’s neither. Because the thought behind the promise is wrong. I’m not scared of ending up like the person over there, I’m not scared of dying and being buried with no one in the world at my side.
“I know.” I say, hoping to sound secure enough to leave it at that. But apparently I don’t.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re really convinced of that.”
“I am.”
We watch in silence as the man and woman at the grave shake hands and part, each one walking in a different direction. The man is striding up the path towards us. I can see an corporate logo on his tie as he passes us by. He gives a nod. We nod back. Then he is gone. I look back at the grave and then I see it.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“Did you see the logo on his tie? That’s the same on as on the wreath. He wasn’t even family. Probably just his or her employer.”
“We don’t know that.” The voice reminds me carefully. I nod. “And speaking of things we know or don’t know…”
I interrupt. “I know it won’t be like that. And that’s just it…” I feel puzzlement behind me and the need for an explanation. So I give in. “I know I won’t be buried with only my boss and a single relative around. I know there will be plenty of people. All of them telling each other how much I’ve meant to them, how wonderful a person I was. And about 99,9 percent of them won’t have seen or spoken to me in ages. That’s what hurts. Knowing that they will be there for me and think of me when it’s too late. I don’t need them to be part of my funeral. I would have needed them to be part of my life.”
I look over at the fresh grave and suddenly I see them. All of them. Standing on the path and the nearby aisles. Some of them are still on the forecourt of the church. Talking to each other in silent voices. Greetings are exchanged and former friends reunited. Words are drifting over to me, words I cannot bear to hear. “Loved her so much”, “meant so much to me”, “was always very dear to me”, “such a wonderful person”. And it hurts. More than any curse of bad word could. Love. Yeah, right. I try to shake the thought, but it refuses to go. In order to mock my attempts of shutting my imagination down, the picture before my inner eyes gets even clearer. I feel myself wonder why this person or that one is here, why this person or that took the trouble to come and then the anger starts to rise as I hear someone else saying. “I cannot imagine this world without her.”
“Why not, worked well for you in recent years, didn’t it”.
“What?”
A familiar voice in my ear. A puzzled question. And the mourners are gone.
“Sorry” I say, finally turn around and smile. Two eyebrows rise in a mixture of amusement and slight fear. “Sorry.” I repeat. “I’ve just thought what it would be like. You know. What they might say. And it made me angry. Knowing that when the time comes, they’ll all say what a tragedy it was, not realising that the real tragedy happened so much earlier.”
“Tragedy? What tragedy?” The voice rises in fear and something even beyond that. I look up, realising that our trains of thought were heading towards different stations.
“You know. My death. When I’m run over by the coffee-trolley in the Stansted Express at the age of 79. Real tragedy that.”
He grins. I smile. He looks at the lonely grave. Then at me.
“Do you really think so? That it will be like that?”
I’m tempted to misunderstand him and make another joke about the dangers of riding the Stansted Express, but to my own surprise I opt for the truth. Although it’s not much more than a whisper.
“I know it. When I don’t need them any more they will be there. And they will be sorry and sad. And they will miss me. And they will never know how much knowing that hurts right this moment.”
My voice trails off. So do my thoughts. There’s nothing more to add.
“Lets go and get a coffee.” I say with a final sigh and slide my hand into his. He looks at me, concern and hope in his bright blue eyes, not yet convinced that the crisis has passed. I look back and feel my soul mending under his comforting gaze, the wound closing silently, without any effort, sealed of once more until another day. Another time. Or maybe until the end of time. Who knows. I shrug. “Maybe it won’t be like that after all. I mean: A lot can happen in the next 45 years, can’t it?”
He laughs. And so do I.
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