A grave to remember

A short story written early to mark remembrance day.

He asked why the flowers lay at the foot of the gravestone.

All about them the wild wind whipped up flurries of leaves in its lament; a swirling storm of rusty oranges and muted browns twisting round trees and graves like an ever moving mist. The light was tempered by the angry violet clouds above, which both threatened storm and foretold of the ice and snow yet to come. The graves stood low, huddled to the ground for warmth or part hidden under masses of dark green brambles and overgrown grasses.

He looked up as the harsh croaking voice of a crow pierced the breeze from the dark behemoth branches of the yew above. As he did so, his mother knelt down to look deep in his eyes and hold his cold hands in the warmth of hers. She noted how small and fragile he seemed, how tiny his hands were in hers, how innocent his eyes and the smoothness of a brow as yet untroubled with the weight of the world’s cares.

.

She wondered what to say and how to speak. She stopped as her tongue strove for form to tell of the pain that could shatter this perfect crystal-like gem before her.

How was she to speak of the many long wars; to tell of the blood-soaked lands where men whispered their dying breaths to darkening air turned acrid from powder, smoke and gas. What could she say of forgotten trenches where fear bred like rats, or the great prison cages where death waited to wash over in breathless showers. Was it easier to break him slow with purpose and reason, or should she tell him straight and watch him curl about the wound of shattered light.

She looked at the grave. No-one lay beneath it but it marked the spot where all had stood since first blood was drawn many lifetimes ago. It lay unremarked on for all but one day a year, yet it was never truly forgotten, just put to one side so that the hurt was made unreal and intangible. It’s form was low yet its shadow could reach to the ends of the earth. It marked a point that was promised to remember but so often was left forgotten.

What could she tell him? What should she say?

The first drops of rain brushed her cheek as she reached out and kissed his forehead, then gently she led him over to the bench near-by.

Long they sat there as she spoke, knowing only that she couldn’t lie. Haltingly, her words came at first, gaining smoothness only as her feet reached solid ground. About them the rain passed unnoticed and the wind ebbed and flowed.

She spoke of loss and sadness and told him of the loves left behind; the tales of young men marched proudly from her lips and fell in silence to the air. She said about burning bullets of hate and friends made foe in fear and lies and greed. She recounted the great purposes shown as folly in the grim powder light and fire. She explained of hatred, blind without end.

She spoke all the pain that she wished to hide from, and the darkness in human hearts. Then she brushed his eyes and sadly smiled. “That’s why the grave is there.”

She paused and thought. “But not,” she added, “the flowers.”

.

She took from her bag a single bloom as she said this; a perfect red of blood it was, bright and warm.

Then, laying the flower to the grave’s edge she spoke once more. Her voice now certain and strong where it had felt frail before. She talked about hopes and kindness when all seemed too bleak to find a friend. She raised her words to recount of those who stopped to see instead of fear. She brought light in tales of those who saw the pain and held the hurt in their arms; of brothers and sisters who wanted no more to see foes in those they didn’t know or harm to those who were counted less. She named those who walked the gravesides to give love, peace or healing, and those who only knew tales but used them to build bridges. She talked of those who remembered that the weak were just like them and saw blood and dust covering their differences so that they could see they were just the same.

She spoke of love born from wanting no more hate, and the light of human hearts. Then, not taking her eyes from this stone made heavy with ages, she raised herself up and stepped back.

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The wild wind whipped up flurries of leaves as they left that day; a swirling storm of bright oranges and warm browns twisting round trees and graves like an ever moving rainbow. The light was tempered by the angry violet clouds overhead, which framed the bright golden rays of an autumn sun. The graves stood tall, reminders of hopes and dreams gone by and yet to come, and the bright sharp calling song of a robin filled the air from the red berry strewn branches of a yew above.