one | blossoms of death
Augustine moved through the graveyard, crossing every gravestone, reading all the words inscribed on them. The stones were all sad looking. A gloomy grey. Their corners were rough and mostly broken—all because of the mystical works of time.
She remembered how many trees it had had once. There used to be some thorny bushes bordering it too. The giant trees that had once surrounded it had faded with time.
Each day the old grave digger came, adding to death’s vast collection. Augustine wondered how much life he had left, after having buried so many lifeless bodies.
She watched a rather frail patch of—a creeper? Ivy? —losing its will to live.
So many lives had faded. So many lives were fading. So many lives would fade.
She could hear the sounds of those she could not see. They were very faint, but they were there. The dead begged to be heard. They begged to be remembered.
Augustine could make out the writings on the gravestones which had managed to survive.
Juniper Hudson, 1847–1906.
“May June find her peace with her Creator.”
Arnold Fletcher, 1784–1800.
“Arnie died too young. May the child forevermore be at peace.”
Marjorie Clarke, 1856–1890.
“May Marge’s spirit find eternal peace and prosperity. Her children shall terribly miss her.”
William Morgan, 1836–1915.
“He used to say, ‘Oh, I will only live while I love.’, and rightfully he passed when his dear wife Dorothea did.”
Dorothea Morgan, 1838–1915.
“May Dorothea find eternal peace and love with William in death.”
Charles Stanley, 1813–1890.
“Poor old Stanley, always cursing out someone! Never found his peace. May he find it in death.”
She finally found the gravestone she had been looking for. It simply held two lines:
Augustine Taylor, 1779–1793.
Life is a rope made of fragile threads; it can snap at any time.
