The little hilltop meadow had not been a proper cemetery for many years, but Bertrand had softened greatly with age and its disrepair did not bother him as much as it once might. It was silent, save for the chirping of colorful birds and the snickering of squirrels in the brush, and the grass was soft on his aging knees when he knelt down to pray. When his heels began to burn and he could kneel no longer, he rocked forward onto his hands and pressed his forehead into the shortest and greenest blades of grass until the evening dew dried against his skin and the gentle warmth of the soil faded. When this inevitably happened, Bertrand slowly rose to his feet, dusted the soil from his leathery hands and brow, and began to meticulously unpack his bag.
The first thing Bertrand pulled from the sun-baked canvas bag was a large blanket, cream colored and cross-hatched with bands of forest greens. The blanket was old, well-mended, and grass-stained at the edges. It smelled faintly of crushed roses and sage. Next came a pair of bowls. The first was made of tin, tarnished with age. The other was a small glass Tupperware container filled with stew; still warm, he felt.
Laying the bowl of stew aside, he retrieved from the bag a small paring knife and turned for the first time toward the faded headstone beside him. Years of rain had worn shallow channels into its weather-beaten face. Thin sheets of mossy hair grew across its shaded epithet. Sat atop the stone were two small candles, slumped by the autumn sun, which dripped incrementally down across the stone in meandering solar cycles. Working from the bottom, Bertrand’s paring knife scoured away weeds and moss until at last he freed it from their verdant embrace. Slowly, letter by letter, a short epithet emerged from the weathered stone. Bertrand didn’t realize he had started crying until he brushed at his itching cheek with the back of his hand and realized it came away wet. He let them fall after that.
Bertrand blinked until his vision cleared then picked up the knife again, turning his attention this time to the strands of wax and the candles from which they came. Bertrand labored to the quiet sound of his blade hissing along the finely textured stone. With the tender precision of a surgeon, he excised globs of beet-red wax and gathered them in the little tin bowl until it brimmed with shavings. When the knife had been wiped clean with a faded blue handkerchief and safely stored back in the canvas bag, Bertrand lifted the tin bowl and nestled it into a little crop of stones where the sun could do its work. New candles replaced the old ones atop the headstone. Bertrand lit them with a Camel White match and watched their flames titter and dance in the breeze until his eyes began to burn. His work concluded, Bertrand ate quickly, then laid back with his head against the stone to watch the evening sky.
Bertrand whistled quietly to the gravestones; a sad, lonely rhythm that twined with birdsong and cricket chirps and danced along the grass. He liked the way the notes rolled along on the wind and almost didn’t notice the way it burned at the base of his lungs. It comforted him a little to imagine some of his wandering notes resonating deep into the stone and damp earth to find their way home to his dear heart. He touched a hand to the soft soil of the grave and reached for the memory of soft skin against his fingers. Time had softened the memory even as it embrittled his bones and slackened strong muscles. Even as it stole his heart and laid it deep within the Earth’s adoring embrace.
Shades of pale white rounded out to hues of red and orange as the sun set behind distant hills. Bertrand watched the twisting kaleidoscope of colors dance across the lids of his eyes, and moved not an inch until it settled into night. Stiffly, as if pulled by invisible cords, the old man rose to his feet and cast his gaze into the night. Lights glittered down below in the city. Bertrand turned to the candles, blue this time, and pinched one out. He savored the sting for a moment, studying the remaining flame. A soft smile creased the deep lines of his face. He doused the other candle, then bent slowly at the knees to gently kiss the top of the headstone.
“Soon, Dear Heart, but not tonight.”
The tin bowl had cooled; the wax within solidifying into a featureless slab. Time and steady hands would form it into new candles come tomorrow, perhaps, but that too would wait. Bertrand tied it closed with burlap cloth and twine, then returned it to the bag. Next went the glass Tupperware and an old canteen. The blanket, green plaid and grass-stained, settled atop the bowls and tools. Bertrand tussled the grass with his foot, doing what he could to right the delicate blades. Lifting the bag with a wince, he turned from his love and began carefully picking his way down the hill. He would return in two weeks, one if God willed. He would do his work, and he would rest beside the one he had not seen in many years, and he would be safe in the knowledge that they would be in each other’s arms soon enough, burdened only with the weight of new stories, and light with joy. Bertrand waited happily for the day when he went home, but felt no need to rush. Until his last sun set, there would be time enough to tend the meadow.