of pain is one more reason to go on. I’m cold and soaking wet. Strands of hair cling to the side of my face.
“You can’t win,” I mumble to myself. “I won’t let you. I won’t.”
Beneath the soft, crumbling surface soil lies a layer of clay and it takes all my weight to force my shovel deeper. So much effort for so little progress. I’m slowing. I’m sore. I’m tired. Pathetic. Although I want to go on, physically I feel as though I can’t. The work is too much for my frail body. I don’t want to stop, but I’m exhausted. I’m making so little headway against the rain slowly filling the hole with mud. The clay is thick and gummy. My shovel strikes yet another rock, sending a shudder back through my hands. My feet hurt, but I can’t give up. I have to do this.
“You will not win,” I say without any emotion as I respond feebly to another crash of thunder.
Fatigue gives way to mindless repetition. I am Zee. There’s a dull sway, a rhythm to my motion. Again and again my shovel falls, chopping away at the clay.
As the depth of the grave approaches my shoulders, James stares at me with dead eyes. As much as I’d like to turn his head to one side, I can’t. I cannot deny what has happened to him. I barely knew him. To me, he was a jock, a cocky kid, someone who could do no wrong when I could do no right. James was always right. If David was the quarterback we never had, James was the running back. He would blitz past everyone else and leap through the air to catch the winning pass for a touchdown. I should have been nicer to James, I think as yet another shovel of clay and dirt and muddy water turns upside down on the pile beside the hole.
Regrets eat away at my heart. The look in James’ eyes is one of sadness and resignation. Even in death, there are expressions of life.
His mouth is slightly open, almost as though he’s about to say something or as though he’s surprised by what’s happened. There was only ever going to be one outcome once Ferguson drew his gun.
I’ll be damned if I’ll stop now.
Somewhere behind the gloomy clouds, the sun sets and the land is plunged into darkness. The rain is merciless, pounding me and giving me no rest or respite.
Ferguson hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the distant porch along with a dozen other men sheltering from the storm. They’re eating dinner. Lamps within the house cast a soft glow on the windows. It’s warm and dry in there. There’s nothing that says I can’t stop. There’s no one telling me I must go on. No one but me. Pride. With each shovel full of mud and clay and dirt, I whisper.
“For James.”
“For David.”
“For Jane.”
And as much as it pains me to say it, “For Steve.”
I’m not sure what time it is when I’m finally shoveling dirt out over my head, but I’m deep enough. I can stop, and yet that notion seems foreign. Now, I can give James the respect he deserves, the respect we all deserve in death.
“Rest in peace,” I say to those lifeless eyes watching me.
I place the shovel across the top of the grave and use the wooden handle to climb out of the deep hole. Lightning breaks overhead, but the fury of the storm has passed.
Dark silhouettes surround the grave, standing motionless in the bitter night.
My heart skips a beat.
Zee?
Dad steps forward through the rain and reaches out a hand to help me up. I’m covered in mud and dripping wet. Marge is there, as is Ferguson. No one says anything, which is creepy.
Two of the older men gently roll James onto a wooden plank. They loop rope over each end of the wood and raise his body slightly above the sodden grass. Slowly, they lower his body into the grave. Someone has fashioned a wooden cross with the name “James” carved crudely into the crosspiece. Last names have long been rendered obsolete from all but the oldest of adults. No one cares anymore. Us teens don’t. There’s no more nuclear families. Just us and them—Zee.
“Would you like to
“You can’t win,” I mumble to myself. “I won’t let you. I won’t.”
Beneath the soft, crumbling surface soil lies a layer of clay and it takes all my weight to force my shovel deeper. So much effort for so little progress. I’m slowing. I’m sore. I’m tired. Pathetic. Although I want to go on, physically I feel as though I can’t. The work is too much for my frail body. I don’t want to stop, but I’m exhausted. I’m making so little headway against the rain slowly filling the hole with mud. The clay is thick and gummy. My shovel strikes yet another rock, sending a shudder back through my hands. My feet hurt, but I can’t give up. I have to do this.
“You will not win,” I say without any emotion as I respond feebly to another crash of thunder.
Fatigue gives way to mindless repetition. I am Zee. There’s a dull sway, a rhythm to my motion. Again and again my shovel falls, chopping away at the clay.
As the depth of the grave approaches my shoulders, James stares at me with dead eyes. As much as I’d like to turn his head to one side, I can’t. I cannot deny what has happened to him. I barely knew him. To me, he was a jock, a cocky kid, someone who could do no wrong when I could do no right. James was always right. If David was the quarterback we never had, James was the running back. He would blitz past everyone else and leap through the air to catch the winning pass for a touchdown. I should have been nicer to James, I think as yet another shovel of clay and dirt and muddy water turns upside down on the pile beside the hole.
Regrets eat away at my heart. The look in James’ eyes is one of sadness and resignation. Even in death, there are expressions of life.
His mouth is slightly open, almost as though he’s about to say something or as though he’s surprised by what’s happened. There was only ever going to be one outcome once Ferguson drew his gun.
I’ll be damned if I’ll stop now.
Somewhere behind the gloomy clouds, the sun sets and the land is plunged into darkness. The rain is merciless, pounding me and giving me no rest or respite.
Ferguson hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the distant porch along with a dozen other men sheltering from the storm. They’re eating dinner. Lamps within the house cast a soft glow on the windows. It’s warm and dry in there. There’s nothing that says I can’t stop. There’s no one telling me I must go on. No one but me. Pride. With each shovel full of mud and clay and dirt, I whisper.
“For James.”
“For David.”
“For Jane.”
And as much as it pains me to say it, “For Steve.”
I’m not sure what time it is when I’m finally shoveling dirt out over my head, but I’m deep enough. I can stop, and yet that notion seems foreign. Now, I can give James the respect he deserves, the respect we all deserve in death.
“Rest in peace,” I say to those lifeless eyes watching me.
I place the shovel across the top of the grave and use the wooden handle to climb out of the deep hole. Lightning breaks overhead, but the fury of the storm has passed.
Dark silhouettes surround the grave, standing motionless in the bitter night.
My heart skips a beat.
Zee?
Dad steps forward through the rain and reaches out a hand to help me up. I’m covered in mud and dripping wet. Marge is there, as is Ferguson. No one says anything, which is creepy.
Two of the older men gently roll James onto a wooden plank. They loop rope over each end of the wood and raise his body slightly above the sodden grass. Slowly, they lower his body into the grave. Someone has fashioned a wooden cross with the name “James” carved crudely into the crosspiece. Last names have long been rendered obsolete from all but the oldest of adults. No one cares anymore. Us teens don’t. There’s no more nuclear families. Just us and them—Zee.
“Would you like to
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