meet me at the grave

She would buy the flowers herself - she thought walking down the stairs of her flat in pairs. She realised she would be late for her meeting later that morning as she still had to go to the florists at the end of the road before making her way to the cemetery. She took a lighter out of her pocket and after lighting up her cigarette, she took a few drafts of it and checked the time on her watch one more time - as if time could have slowed down for her while she was lightening her cigarette. However it did not and she had to accept the fact that she would not be able to finish her cigarette if she wanted to make it in time. She had never been to the florist, she knew there was one on the end of the street but had had no intention to buy flowers before that morning, she had had no one to buy flowers for that is. She entered the shop, a bell ringing to announce her entrance as she made her way through the alleys made of roses and other flowers she could not name. She realised that - apart from the obvious ones - she had no knowledge on flowers. What a shame - she thought as she was asking the florist for a small bouquet. Leaving the flower shop she ran to the cemetery which was only a few blocks away. Still, the short walk to it was harder since she had to make sure the flowers still looked somewhat decent at the end of her journey.

Jean entered the cemetery and looked at the different engraved names and words written on the graves and only stopped when she saw she had reached her final destination.

“Sorry I could not come sooner… Believe me I wanted to.”

She took a moment to breathe and looked at her watch “I am afraid I do not have much time… , she brushed away a tear before it touched the ground as she resumed talking, you know me, always running…”

As she finished her sentence, she put the flowers down with a shy smile before taking a few steps back. She looked at the other graves around as she took more steps back to realise where she was standing. After a few seconds in her head, she took another deep breath and got herself ready to leave.

She felt a presence getting closer before she heard the footsteps. A woman came from behind her, she walked on her left side putting flowers next to hers on the grave - probably without knowing beforehand they were hers. After all, it could have been from anyone else, just as she could be there for anyone.

“Who?” The woman let out in a breath - it was almost inaudible, much like a whisper - so the other woman took some time before responding, making sure the first one was in fact speaking to her.

“James.” Jean answered without giving much thought to her answer, she hoped that is what the woman meant, who you knew? who died at the front that you wish did not? Surely, that is what she meant. Afterall, they were both in the same cemetery, the only place where dead people can be visited by people who knew them as well as people who did not and who never could, people just passing by visiting another dead person.

“Really?” The woman’s tone suggested she did not quite believe her.

“What about you?” She asked - out of politeness and not real curiosity as she figured she must be there for James as well - at least that is what the flowers suggested.

“James.” She answered as well.

“Really?” She felt the need to still react the way the other woman did - to mask the fact that she had no idea of what else to say.

“He was my brother.” The woman resumed.

“Oh… - she seemed perplexed at first and took a few seconds to make sense of the other woman’s words - Yes… He told me about you.”

“Did he? I am not sure it was anything laudatory.”

“On the contrary it was.” Jean said in a half smile. She felt the need to add - as if to back up her word but also because she had some flashback of her numerous conversations with James “He spoke very highly of you.”

Another silence.

“Where did you know my brother from?” The woman asked - trying to make sense of Jean’s words.

“We met at the front.”

She could see on the woman’s face her confusion revealing the fact that her answer was not satisfying as it did not give the detailed context of her relationship to James.

“I was a nurse.” Jean explained

“Was?”

The fact that the tense of her sentence - and not the content in itself - was what questioned the other woman surprised Jean.

“Yeah…” She wanted to leave it at that but somehow she always felt the need to justify her decision to leave her old job, as if she was a soldier herself - a being that everyone perceived as someone who could be killed in a matter of seconds but would not be forgiven for being a quitter.

“After repairing so many bodies I just could not do it anymore.”

That answer could have been enough but Jean felt a pressing need to confess: “The day… The day James died I knew I could not do it anymore. The day he died from his wounds I knew I would never be able to save anyone.”

She started tearing up and felt as if she had to go on talking to make it stop: “I was in charge of those boys, they trusted me with their lives… and I could not even save them… at least not James.”

“My mother felt bad too…” The woman let out before explaining “James - he was never so much of a soldier, she was the one who thought it was a duty for men to fight and her duty as a mother to give her son to the nation.”

She smiled and as a little girl who was caught gossiping about another child she resumed: “I cannot blame her, that is the way mothers learned to see the war. And honestly he did not have much choice… He was not a soldier but he wanted to make mom proud.”

The way the woman said “mom” made Jean realise who she was talking to: another young woman.

That is what war did to a country, even to the ones who did not go to the front. They turned boys into weapons - making them fight their battles - whilst turning girls into mothers - making them bear their next soldiers.

In the end - Jean thought - they were all still kids forced into adulthood way too early.

“We know better now, ” added the woman, “I would do anything for my son so that he never has to bear a gun in his hands.” She said quite convinced.

Jean let out a timid smile.

She knew she had to go. Still, she felt she could not. She felt time stopped - it had to otherwise it would be rude - she felt they deserved time, she felt James deserved time.

“I am happy you got to know him a bit at least.” The woman said - apparently not realising she was compelling the other one to stay a bit longer in the cemetery. “I hope he made a good impression despite the context.” She added.

“He did. We grew up to become friends.”

And as she turned to the woman, added: “I really did my best.”

The woman nodded- - she believed her. She had no much choice truly. Besides, it would not change a thing whether she did or not believe her: James was dead.

The woman took a tissue out of her pocket and gave it to the other woman.

Jean wiped out her tears. Even talking through it could not stop her from tearing up. She looked at the tissue where an ‘M’ was embroidered. She realised she had not told her name since they were talking - nor did she ask for the other woman’s.

“Jean.” She finally introduced herself with a gesture of her hand.

The woman - after a moment - gave in and smiled with the kind of smile you only see on tv before shaking her hand and announcing: “Marilyn.”

And that was the beginning.