The Silent Lawn
She sat on the grass. It was soft grass. Green grass.
The perfect place to have a picnic. No noise. No traffic. Quiet. Tranquil.
Pleasant.
Except for one thing. Just one. There was no picnic. It was a graveyard. A cemetery.
...
The lawn was perfect, peaceful, still. As were its inhabitants. The ones below ground anyway.
She had few thoughts while she spread her little blanket out on the grass. She rarely did.
They didn't talk much when they were both alive, but they communicated well.
She took a small pillow. The kind you use on airplanes to keep your neck from getting stiff.
She put it around her neck, and eased herself down against the cool granite of the Headstone.
Only one word was on the headstone: Beloved.
It was the only one necessary.
She loved the coolness of the stone against her cheek. The way the occasional tear would fall,
find no place to cling to on the stone, then puddle weakly at the bottom, on bits of dried cement.
She watched those tears in silence. There weren't as many as there were the first few years.
Now, more than two decades later, those tears were rare, and more from memory than actual grief.
She lost him when they were on a dangerous mission, and that is the last time when she saw him, his chocolate brown eyes filled with lots of love to her, and a soft smile on his face... The only moment which is always revolving around her.
Other people seemed to be able to move on from grief, to return to the now, to live in the present moment. Not her.
The silent lawn was where she spent her time, her past, and her now. Her future lay as buried as he was.
This visit was no different than the hundreds of visits, no thousands of visits, before today. It is why there were so few words.
She didn't need a lot of words when he was alive. Now that he lay comfortably entombed in a perfect lawn, his home for more than two decades;
she found that words were inadequate for the bond they had. For the bond was still there. He could still make her smile. He still took away her worries.
He still, somehow, made her alive enough to live another day. She was surprised then, when a voice filtered into her consciousness.
"Daya..." Yes, it was him, his beloved. She was unable to believe on her ears but it was true. It was his voice. Soft, caring. The tone one of comfort, caring, and safety apparent in every word. She snuggled against that voice like one would pull a comforter around you, just so, before sipping your hot chocolate on a very cold winters night, with all the lights off watching the snow fall gently to form mounds of powder outside the window.
It didn't startle her at all to hear him say: " Shreya, that stone must be cold. Your pillow has slipped down."
Sure enough, it had. She straightened it back up, and pressed a little lightly on the stone with a free hand.
She was startled when she felt his hand , feather light, but strong, explore her fingers and forearm. Tracing her skin like an artist might outline a painting.
With a confident touch, but delicate, lest the perfection be marred by some minute mistake in technique or pressure. She liked that feeling, it was how he traced her arm many a time when they were together. A thought sprung gently, bereft of regret, devoid of malice or melancholy into her mind: " He used to trace my face, my jaw, my lips and my eyebrows with that same fine delicate strong confident touch. " A moment later, she felt that familiar feather light touch, on exactly those same spots. She snuggled closer to the stone. The smile on her face rivaled the Mona Lisa's for its affect on those that saw it. "I missed you."
She heard the words as clear as if he had just leaned over, as he had so many times in life, to whisper her a good night. "Me too." She replied, with her eyes closed, the comforter of her mind wrapped, just so, around body, the hot chocolate cooling on her lap. It was a moment that one only gets when the fire almost dies out, or the gentle purge of sleep begins, the mug of hot chocolate half forgotten, as the snow outside the window forms little drifts of memory to float haphazardly - without intruding- on the descent into either memory or sleep. There were no more words. They didn't need them much in life. She didn't need them now.
That is how they found her in the morning. The comforter was so elegant, that they buried her in it. The coffee mug, with just a few sips of hot chocolate that had cooled so only a slight chill was left in it, was clasped in one hand, resting lightly on the grass. They placed the mug in the casket too. No one knew how she made hot chocolate, or where the mug came from. It just seemed right that it belonged with her.
The lawn was silent again. A few workers, and some other grief stricken folks, later reminisced about the lady found with the comforter and hot chocolate at her husband's grave site a while ago. Most of them talked about the smile she had, how her head leaned against the stone, as if she were snuggled up in the crook of someone's neck, no words necessary- just the comfort of freedom from small talk. Words weren't necessary. They shared few in life, and now, none were needed.
Pleasant. Quiet. Tranquil. Peaceful.
The lawn was silent.
****-THE END-****