“I can’t read the name,” Liala whispered, her voice catching in the crisp bite of autumns wind. She crouched by the lichen embraced stone, its edges showing the degree of age and fading resistance to the elements.
“It isn’t named.” Esa shouted from two rows over, her cracked voice battling over the winds steady dance with the lifeless leaves. She kept her distance, like one does with the sun – basking in its warmth from a safe proximity. Esa pulled her beanie further down her head, a subconscious action attempting to hide the longing in her eyes.
“I thought you said you come here to remember someone?” Liala affectionately brushed her fingers across the tombs face, unsure which of the many indents might once have been carved by a chisel and which were the marks from decades of relentless rain. A few stray bits of dehydrated moss peeled away, leaving her fingers stained in a muted grey-green.
Esa watched, entranced.
Despite being warm beneath a mustard turtleneck and thick nylon black jersey, a tingle snaked its way up her spine, forcing the hairs on the back of Esa neck to assert their own awareness.
Liala treated the stone with reverence, even tenderness, her touch compassionate.
If there were such thing as ghosts, whoever was buried under there would surely rise to greet that hand and feel the same wash of jealousy as Esa did now. As she wandered closer, Esa let her own hands run the curves of the graves.
“I do,” Esa called. “I try to remember all of them.”
Liala twitched her head up, forgetting the pontification about making an ink pigment from the lichon dust. “All of them?” Her chestnut-auburn head tilted to the side, hair bouncing in the wind, her clear sage tinted eyes sparking with curiosity.
An image striking enough that Esa momentarily forgot how to walk.
Her left foot flailed and stubbed against a stone, sending Esa into a bull charge towards rusted iron gate Liala explored behind. Gasping, Liala stretched forward, over the bars and called ‘careful!’ – while she internally cursed the bars for being between them and halting her ability to catch the tall, mysterious woman in her arms. Liala spent many walks home from art school wondering how to get closer to Esa. Now they had an assignment together, it was the prefect excuse. Except Esa had kept her distance.
Esa couldn’t stop her charge forwards. The tactful and unnoticeable avoidance of entering any physical contact with such an angel had been flawless. Had. Even bracing her arms to catch the fence, Liala’s soft fingers found their way around Esa elbow. No longer sure if she were stone or bone, Esa simply forgot oxygen was a requirement for survival. Chest suspended, Esa’s eyes locked with Liala’s for 6 absent heartbeats.
“You okay?” Liala breathed and Esa caught hold of herself, gasping air into her lungs.
“Ah, yeah, fine.” She stammered straightening her back and turning away, both young women hiding their blushes.
“You said…” began Liala, scrapping her baby blue flat shoe against the grass. “That you try to remember them?”
Esa cleared her throat. “Yeah,” she shrugged. The iron gate squeaked as Esa crossed the threshold into the historic quadrant of the cemetery to join Liala.
“I write about them. Imagine who they might have been. I want to remember them, because I think… I think I’d want someone to remember me. Ya know?” Esa didn’t make eye contact; she stared at the stones – the unnamed wanders from hundred of years ago who Esa considered her friends.
Liala’s chest tightened. Esa always seemed so self-sure, content and independent. To Liala, Esa was the kind of woman who was unforgettable in every-way. She’d never considered that, perhaps, Esa was just as lonely as she was.
Gliding over to Esa’s side, Liala decided to be brave.
They appeared an unusual pair – the shorter Liala in her yellow smock, blue shoes and bright green cardigan. Esa in her black jeans, black jersey with just a hint of mustard at her throat, short brown hair stuffed beneath a grey beanie. Tentatively, Liala slid a pale hand to tuck beneath Esa’s arm. “Will you tell them to me?” Daffodils sprouted from the soil in the warmth of Liala’s request.
Esa smiled, unsure why she’d been so afraid before. Liala smelt like spring, her mouth like summer and her eyes danced like Sunday mornings.
“Okay” she whispered and brushed a stray lock from Liala’s check.
“It’s a date then,” Liala beamed and as her head rested on Esa shoulder, “We can remember them together.”
📸 Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Be First to Comment