A burial at Richies was rare, for the rich are not known for

their dying. Their graves belied the strength and the long
life that wealth could bring. But they did die. Our work, our
calluses, our worn tools, and worn muscles were proof, even
as they werent proof. We were sure of the nature of things
beneath our feet. There was no meandering; our lives
revolved around the point. So, when the coffin came and the
procession followed, we were excited and not surprised. Our
eyes focused rather than widened. Our hearts sped from
curiosity rather than shock. We grew eager, as for an event
that comes not often, but that comes always and forever.
The coffin was carried by six men, three on each side. And
they walked slowly for their load was heavy. Ahead of them
was a single man who looked out and guided. Behind them
was the crowd, lined and ordered so that they were not a
mob. They walked forward and did not look back. Their
heads were pointed up and they did not watch their shoes.
They walked with assurance. Their shoes were black and
their trousers black; black faces hidden behind black hats.
They cast long shadows in the autumn sun. They were as
the shadow of a cloud is, and moved as the shadow of a
cloud moves, taking great strides yet appearing motionless.
None of us had ever seen a procession. Except Stan, who
had lived his fathers funeral. We were curious but did not
look up. We did not cease our work. We listened, the air was
thin and the day was well-made for our ears. Listening did
not betray our interests; we could work while listening. We
heard with our ears and our arms and with our feet. We felt
the tremble of earth through our broken shoes. And with our
palms pressed against the grass we heard the marching of
the crowd. We discerned distance from tremors. We heard
the impression of footsteps on soil. We were geologists.
We determined distance with our ears, and numbers we
determined with our feet. They were far away, yet close
enough. So far, they were two-dimensional. So close we

could smell them, could see the shapes of their shoes and
glean the gleam of gold buttons. Close enough that we
could see them well, far enough that we would not be seen.
Having done our calculations, we peeked imperceptibly. We
could not risk capture; the earth is firm, but not always
reliable. We moved with all the slowness that we could
afford (and we were quite rich) that we could see unnoticed.
They did not approach us, nor did they walk away. They
glided as a swords edge upon the wire of the horizon. We
could see them between the rows of soft uplifted Earth and
hard set stone. We worked slowly; we were atop a high hill
and the geometry dissuaded our discovery. Still, we were
cautious. Slow was better than quick and we had time.
The movement stopped. They had arrived. The hole was
already dug; deep and rectangular. The earth was fresh and
not yet shaded; the edifice would come later. The lines
formed into ranks and files. The six men lowered the coffin
into the grave. The lone man, who guided, stood at the side
of the grave and watched. The coffin was confined to its
patch of earth. The tired six retired to the ranks. The lone
man remained, and from the folds of his coat, revealed a
black book.
The man opened the book to some page and began reading.
He did not look at the book, or the grave. His eyes were
toward the people, but he did not seem to look at them
either. We did not understand this, until Joe spoke.
Heh. Old mans near blind.
Howd you figure that? I asked
Thats Gregor right? said Mike
So it is said Wil, and Joe nodded.

Mustve been short notice. Said Mike. Wil grunted, Joe kept
nodding.
Whos Gregor? I asked.
Dont you go to the spire-house on Sundays? Ive seen you
there. Said Joe
Oh. I said.
Stu never looked up and Stan never looked down, kept his
gaze always on the man. We could see Stans lips mouthing
words he did not know. Words none of us knew. A swift and
soft tongue, whose utterings were grandeur and force.
Words we could feel, though we did not know them.
It went on like that for a while. Our ears shut off to the
unknown; the foreign tongue was noise and faded away.
Only Stan kept his eyes on the man and muttered and shook
his head in frustration. The water-words could not be held.
Then, suddenly the noise stopped, and the man began
speaking anew. This time we understood; but too soft, too
low. We heard only words, not thoughts.
Profit.manlaborunder the sun? There was some
consternation amid the crowd; the nervousness of clouds
before a storm.
Generation.away.generation.come.Earth.forever

Whatre you gawking for? Work! Wil, of course; most of us

had stopped our work to listen. At Wils word our hands
began to move again, our ears skipped a beat, but returned
to the rhythm of the words.
Riversseayet...not fullplace from.return againfull
of laborman cannoteyeseeing.ear. filledhearing.
The man stopped. The book was open, the crowd kept its

hush, and in the sudden silence we could hear our hearts.

The man looked down at the book; he closed it and put it
back into the folds of his coat. He looked again at the crowd,
still, he did not see them.
There is no new thing under the sun. There is no
remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any
remembrance of things that are to come with those that
shall come after. He did not murmur, or mutter. Un-muted
voice overtook the still air, penetrated stone and earth. We
heard him well.
The clamor grew; the crowd bubbled, almost boiling over,
then the lone man stepped aside and one from the crowd
took his place. Speeches were delivered, mercy purchased,
pity pilfered. Sons and brothers and colleagues, collected
grief and pocketed tears. Handkerchiefs rose to dry the fine
china of cheek. Dirt was streamed in by hands, sometimes
wet dirt, mud that was watered by eye, and sometimes ash,
dirt as dry as sand. The coffin covered and the procession
ended, the crowd was a drop of water falling on concrete.
Dissipation. Disappearance. A few men left behind, who
watched as two men came, drew shovels, and bit the earth.
They chatted quietly as they watched; the sun oranged and
hid, the shovels patted the earth with satisfaction. Stars
created shadows in the darkness. The work was done. The
mound made. The men walked together, the shovels and
their owners followed behind them. Their shadows did not
meet.
We finished our work. We gathered our tools. We did not
approach the fresh-tilled earth. We were not curious of
buried seed. The events of the day faded from memory,
faces melted away. Some words remained.

December days were cold, bitter affairs. Cremated clouds

blew ashes that buried the Earth. Trees were dry of leaves
and fruit; and wet with snow. Our clothes and our homes
were laid bare by the winds. Imperfections the holes in our
roofs, or in our clothes, the loosened walls or broken doors
or missing buttons, the broken heater and the lost scarf
the unnoticed and the invisible in fairer days, when wind
was welcome, were now inconvenient ugliness. And we were
cold.
Only the ones already buried sheltered by Earth or stone
or brick were unaffected. Though they too, were
undoubtedly cold, despite their weather-less abodes.
Richies never closed. Rain, snow, wind, be what it may, it all
fell to us as work. But the cold dissuaded Richies oldest
keepers and, as per economic principle, wages were higher
in the winter months. The work too was harder, for snow is
not easy to clean and fewer men meant more labor. But we
were young, and the pay was good. And it was our purpose
to convert our youth into pay.
Je-sus, its cold, what is it -4 today? said Mike. Four of us
were walking to Richies, Stu and Wil lived elsewhere and
were absent.
-2 actually, get a hat I said.
And what? Cover my mane? No chance in hell, Phil.
Whatever; your purple ears say something else though I
said.
What? I dont have purple ears Mike rubbed his ears. Do I
Joe? Joe, are my ears purple? And Mike brought the side of
his head to Joes eyes. Joe shoved Mikes head away.

Get out my face Mike said Joe. Mike continued to rub his
ears. Joe walked up toward Stan, who was leading. Hey
Stan, Lennys is open again.
Oh? replied Stan.
Yeah, I was walking by yesterday
Alright. Said Stan, still looking ahead.
So, you wanna go? asked Joe.
What, today? Stan replied. I was listening with every
available organ, I knew about Lennys, it was a corner store.
But the sudden interest was strange. Mike was in his own
world, where his ears were purple and needed constant
rubbing.
Sure, today. Why not? Cold a day as any.
Yeah, but he just opened, you think hes still gonna do it?
Well why wouldnt he? And Ive already been in there and
checked it out. Its good to go. Stan finally turned and
looked at Joe. Then he noticed my eyes and I looked away.
Alright, well go today. Stan looked at me again, and I think
he smiled a little. Then the face snapped back, as a
compass needle might, and we were back on course.
Joe fell back in line and smacked Mikes busy hands (still
upon his ears).
Theyre not purple Mike, but they will be if you dont stop.
Then Joe grabbed Mikes ear and twisted.
Ow! Alright, alright. Mike rubbed his ear a last time and
put his hands in his pockets.

I laughed and Stans smile and Joes words were lost to

Mikes mirth.
We reached Richies and found Stu, as usual, setting up the
tools for the days work. Five large shovels, two ice picks,
three buckets of water (lukewarm), and two washcloths. Wil
was absent; a recent, uncommon occurrence, becoming
common quickly. Stan issued orders then picked up an ice
pick (he did not have the musculature for shovel work) and
began stabbing stone. The rest of us, except for Stu, who
joined Stan, picked up a shovel and started clearing the
entrances.
Work went on in silence for a while, then Wil came and saw
a shovel and saw the snow and with the task before him he
set his strength towards its completion; almost herculean in
his labors.
Snow work is cold work and futile work. Fingers whiten and
numb and joints rust. Frost captures our breath and burns
our lungs. We grow slow. The shovel grows heavy. The snow
grows hard. And we pink and pale. And the shadows
lengthen. We make progress and it comes without notice,
like spring rain. We smile at a path drawn and when the
snow falls soft on our noses, we anger; we scorn. But our
burning cheeks and fiery tempers cannot melt the skies. We
are covered up and muffled and muted. We lean and
breathe white wisps of winter. And we are sad.
Then a sharp crunch cracks the silent snow. And we turn and
find Wil with broken powder upon his head. And we eat our
warm smiles. And swallow chuckles ablaze in our mouths.
Joe and Mike whistle as Wil growls and charges. Then we run
and Wil chases and we laugh. And the manhood is arrested
for a freedom of play.
The cold is not so biting then and the sun not so far.

The play ends. The paths are covered and the ice has
gathered. We grab our tools and we return. We are not so
angry now, though the softness falls and burdens us.
Though the progress is washed white. Though the muscles
ache at renewed routine. We are not sad. We work with
strong smiles in our stomachs; with quiet joy.
The sun shines harder at noon. And the rayed rain signals a
short respite. The light is on our backs, but the snow is
heavy. We cannot sit on our usual spots. They are too cold
and too white and too wet. So we huddle beneath a larger
tomb. There are walls and a high roof and stone pillars
which hold it up. It is dark for stone is not porous and the
death odor seems to claw at us. But it is warm. The warmth
of living bodies and breath, and of hearts beating with
mutual consent.
We squat, but our legs tire. We sit, but the stone is cold. We
huddle close enough to see ourselves reflected. A shared
sight and a shared breath precede the shared lunches.
To the left was a boxed lunch which told of a doting mother.
To the right was wrapped meat that smelled warm even as it
was cold. To the front was a loaf of bread and a small apple.
To me were the greens, the health and the distaste. And a
small treasure: a boiled egg still warm.
Well, well, greenie got himself an egg Mike had spotted
the reflected white in the darkness.
Want it Mike? I held up the warm white jewel. Mikes lips
quivered and I could hear the tongue moistening.
Wellit s just an egg, but, uh, Ill give you slice of meat for
it. Choice meat. All were watching the proceedings, even
Wil.
Ill give you half-

Done. Mike cut the meat in half and snatched the top of
the egg. Then his tongue engulfed the warmth and he
leaned back in ecstasy.
Stan chuckled and the rest of us laughed. Then the trades
began. Most valuable was meat. Warm food was an
impossible rarity; sweets, too valuable to exist. Vegetables
were a food of necessity and not desire; they required a
salesmans touch to unload. Fruit was the common coinage.
The trades were quick and loud. Laughter and language
mingled over quick hands and faster tongues. The rich were
generous and the poor profited. Wils loaf of bread was
broken and bartered for more filling food. Joe and Mike
traded their meat with little difficulty; Mike was
conservative, for he had already won his prize. Joes trades
bordered on charity. Stans tin box - with the broken handle
and the bordering bit of string which kept the box shut - was
well filled. Stan had no need to barter. And he never traded.
Half of his meal was always levied to Stu.
Stus green apple, which puckered our faces in salivated
sourness, was a rarity.
Usually, he had nothing.
Stu was stubborn and proud. His quiet nature belied the
strength of his obstinacy. He never accepted offered food.
He never allowed offered help. It is quite possible he would
have died if not for Stans bargain.
But today, Stan did not budge, and his box remained full.
The trades ended and each had his balanced meal. But Stu
had only his apple.
We saw Stu make the slightest movement of the eye, so
swift; it was nothing, so quiet, we were unsure. But we knew.
It was a glance at Stan, who was chewing his food with

gentle slowness. And then we saw the soul harden and all
our food was snatched by merciless pity.
Wheres the knife? said Joe. And looked at each of us,
stopping on Stu.
Here. Said Mike and he wiped the small blunt blade of
meat and vegetation.
Give the apple here, Stu, well cut it and trade for It. said
Joe, and beckoned with the knife.
Stu grabbed the apple, curled his hand to refuse, hesitated,
and dropped it in Joes hand at last. Joe cut the apple into
white half-moon slivers. Then he laid them on a small
flattened paper bag and flourished with his hand.
Alright, last trade of the day. Said Joe.
And the slices were taken and replaced. It was not trade, it
was veiled alms. But, hunger never hesitates and Stu picked
up his food and ate quietly.
He did not look at Stan again.
We followed the feasting. We ate with the whole of our
bodies. We did not play with our food. It was not merely
mouth or stomach; we were not only eating or filling or
feeding; we were warding off hunger. We were engaging in
ritual.
Food was our faith; hunger our God; appeasement our
purpose; a difficult task and an impossible task. We could
chew well and swallow slow, but we could not make more of
matter than what there was. We began hungry and ended
less hungry, yet hungry all the same. Such were our
commandments: Thou shalt not be full, and we never
sinned.

We took our communion with the haste of hunger and the

solemnity of sacrifice. We filled our bellies with odors and
worshiped our noses. We knew the great secret; to taste
without substance. And woe was the one with a numb nose,
with a stuffed sense. Colds could kill; to lose our smells was
to starve.
We finished feasting and peeked outside. The snow had
renewed our work but was taking breath before its next
blow. We stretched and went to grab our tools. Joe began
whispering to Stan. Stan furrowed his brow and nodded.
Alright, lets go then said Stan.
Go where? rumbled Wil.
Lennys replied Stan.
Its closed. said Wil
Its open again; Thought we could go before breaks over
Joe this time, with careful intonation of his words. All looked
up at Wil, we needed permission. Wil grunted and looked
around at us.
Alright. Got ten minutes anyway. Said Wil. We began to
breathe again. We lay our tools where we stood and
gathered to go. Only Stu did not release his pick and kept
his gaze on his work. We started walking. Stu did not follow.
Stan was at the head of us with Wil close behind. We formed
a line out instinct and walked in unison.
Stan stopped and looked behind him and saw Stu doing his
pick work. He held up a hand for us to wait and called out to
Stu.
You coming Stu?

We waited with boiling breath that steamed our noses as it

streamed out. We were confused. Stu had no reason to go to
Lennys, for such reasons stem from cash and coin. To invite
him on such a trip was a terrible insult. But the idea of insult
and the character of Stan were in such opposition we could
only scratch our heads.
Come on Stu, we only got ten minutes said Stan.
Stu looked up, and rather than hate or pain, we saw a deep
sadness. Bitterness only we could understand. Then he got
up, dropped his pick, and joined the end of the line, behind
myself.
Alright, lets go said Stan and walked forward with
unconquerable confidence.
Stans paces were wide because his limbs were long. He
walked, we jogged. He jogged, we ran. Out of breath, we left
the walls of Richies and entered the town.
The streets of the town were known to us in two ways. In the
deep dark, and in the dawning morn. Both are quiet and
empty; both are lightless and lifeless. Men and women are
sleeping and children are dreaming. Cries and footsteps and
whispers are carried too far and heard by too few.
Winter is most quiet. The lamps are too wet to be lit and
there is not enough light for anyone to walk in and the night
is extended for a few hours. Noise may seem to emanate
from man but in his absence there is not silence. The sounds
of Nature are subtle and slow, but not without presence.
Walking home or walking to Richies in the winter days can
be frightening. For not all of natures sounds are familiar or
welcome. Sometimes we heard the songs of mourning birds.
Sometimes the sound of snowflakes crashing on melting
shores. There we whistled to ward away the madness.

In the dark and in the dawn, the streets were only the stone
below our feet. But in the day, there was activity and life
and light. We could see beyond the shadows of our feet, and
the silence-sounds of nature were hidden behind a
manmade mask. The streets were not full; it was too cold.
But there was depth. Voices overlapped, children played,
men and women rushed and ran, bartered and peddled.
There were enough sights and sounds to be too many. There
were enough sensations to be overwhelming. There was
enough of man to outweigh nature.
Never knew there was this many people said Mike.
Thats cause we never see them, we only ever walk when
theyre not there replied Joe.
Yeah, I guess thats so
Hey whyre we going to Lennys anyway? I drew a few
drops from a dry well of courage.
Heh, thats right, you and Stu dont know. said Joe.
Know what? I asked.
Youll see Mike this time. Dont worry, its a good thing
I said nothing and fell back in line. Mike whistled to himself
but no one spoke. Stan was too far ahead to observe, Wil
was too unapproachable. Joe was darting his eyes to and fro
but looking at nothing. I was an Orpheus, Stu the Eurydice.
Once or twice I was compelled to look behind; butt was
ashamed and did not turn. Stu saw only his feet.
Lennys was only a few minutes walk from Richies, but an
unfamiliar environment turns minutes to hours. Only Stan,
who was guided by purpose, did not lose attention, and
looked only forward. It was for him we did not falter. We

were tied to the line as the body of caterpillar is tied to the

head.
All at once we arrived. It was a small store; there was one
window and one door and a bell that tinkled to tell of
potential patrons. There were rows of shelves with
uninteresting items. Past the shelves was a small counter
kept by a wry old man. His name was foreign and forgotten;
he went only by Lenny, for his identity rested with that
name. He had one bad eye and two bad ears and wore
always a brown jacket, frayed at the arms. Weather did not
affect him, the forces of nature or man did not disturb him.
His one good eye missed nothing, and his two bad ears were
no handicap. There was a small rusted stool which he sat on
and a small cigar box, where he kept his money.
Back for the usual Stan? Lenny had noticed our party and
beckoned for Stan.
Yes, sir. Said Stan.
What? Well, alright. Go on then. Gotta rid of em anyway
replied Lenny and waved us away.
Stan weaved through the aisles and went to the back. We
followed, and came upon a miraculous sight: a freezer. It
was a small box filled with ice; inside were frozen treats.
Greatest of all: ice cream. I shivered, but it was not from the
cold.
Alright, you know what to do; one each. Said Stan. I stood
confused as Wil and Joe each took a bar from the freezer.
Mike brushed some of the ice away and pulled out a small
cup filled with white ambrosia. Stan took nothing, and
waited.
Phil, pick something out. Said Stan.

There is no greater despair than falling from the precipice of

ecstasy. Frozen treats were expensive. The costs to maintain
these delightful delicacies were delineated by their price.
The wages of winter work allowed for a bit of pocket money,
therein was my confidence in this trip. But frozen treats
were beyond the broken change in a boys trousers. I felt my
coins and they rattled in my stomach.
Ium.I dont I couldnt find the words and the chest
tightened and the throat closed.
Relax, Phil. The old man gives a discount on frozen stuff
every winter. No one buys in the cold, so we come in here
and clear it out for im. Said Joe.
Yeah, dont worry, you got enough. Said Mike.
Yeah. It was all I could say without bursting in to laughter
or running wild in ecstasy. I ran forward and picked out an
ice cream bar. Darkened chocolate over white vanilla. It was
the first one I saw, and I took it fearing it would disappear.
I stood back and Stan quietly picked out something deep in
the freezer. Then he settled the ice and closed the box. And,
without a word, went back to the counter.
In our happiness we were blind to misery. We forgot about
Stu. Stu had no money; all his earnings were taken from
him. His situation did not allow the slightest leniency and
any falsehood was met with over-just compensation.
Stu never said a word and only kept his gaze downward. The
thought of sharing did not touch us, did not brush our
conscious conscience even a hair; our desires and Stus
pride were so acute, our minds so devoted to a momentous
moments pleasure, we skipped to selfishness. We did not
see Stu; his misery was our own, but we were blind to
misery.

We followed Stan to the counter and presented our goods

and dropped our coins. There was a moment of hesitation as
the weight of money left our pockets, but it was eliminated
before it was felt. The coins were dropped, the treasures
bagged, the goodbyes spoken, the walk was turned into a
run, and the clattering cold, turned into a shivering
anticipation; we arrived at Richies faster than we could, and
still not fast enough.
Open it up already, Stan said Mike.
Stan crouched over the snow and ripped the bag open. Our
treasures spilled forth on the snow. Wil stomped forward and
snatched his bar before anyone could move. Mike and Joe
argued over which treat was theirs. I picked up my bar,
peeled the wrapper and stared at the impossibility.
Stans bar remained on the snow.
Stu, I need to talk to you. Said Stan.
Arguments ceased, ecstasies ended, all activities grinded to
a halt. All heads turned toward Stu, who had gone back to
his pick work. He looked up at Stans call, and walked over.
He did not drop his pick.
What? said Stu, malice well hidden. Stan squatted on the
snow, picked up the bar and presented it to Stu.
Here. I got for this you.
What? said Stu, still there was danger and the pick was
trembling. The eyes focused on the bar.
Its your birthday right? I got this for you. I wanted a cake,
but its not cheap. And I didnt wanna get the usual stuff.
Anyway, its just a thank you for the reading. Dont know
what kind you like buthere. And Stan offered the bar to
Stu. Stus head was down and the pick dug into the floor. We

looked away, for sometimes flowing joy can wound pride

and pride must be preserved. But we smiled with a pleasure
that was greater than the treats we held, that was dearer
than the money we spent. We were blind to misery but we
could hear happiness well enough.
Stan cleared his throat Alright, gentlemen, we have - two
minutes? (he looked at Wil, who grunted) two minutes, left
till we are called back to reality. Then he leaned on a
tombstone and looked at us and stopped at Stu. Lets make
the most it.
We cheered and nourished our souls with the food of Gods.
And sat like kings on the tombs of dead giants. The air was
cold and the cream was cold and the wind was on our backs.
But we were warm, and this we knew, when the ice cream
melted on our tongues. And when the nectar fell and cooled
us; the passing warmth reassured us of our lives. For heat is
the surest sign of life. We were, in the midst of Richies,
upon the backs of dead men, on the sides of eroding stone,
on the fields of fading snow, alive.
What then, is the meaning of breath or pulse or hoarse
heartbeats in the swirling noise? Clinging to the Earth and
then a part of it. Standing atop the summit of men and then
resting below their feet. Who were those Gods we tread
upon? And what value had they in their slumber? To live, to
breathe; to laugh, to feel, to bleed, to be happy, to be cold,
to be wounded, to be free and then to perish and fade. To be
forgotten. The fear of fading memory; of fiery neurons
extinguished.
Yet the pyramids and the castles were a futility.
Illogical. To cling to that which is lost. To cover that which is
buried. To shelter that which is ungrateful. To spend our lives
for the deceased. To eat and play and live among the dead.

To taste ice cream in the frost. Yet such was our lives, filled
with paradox, filled with compromise, filled with want.
But we lived. Though unknown; though forgotten. The cold
was proof and the warmth was proof. For how can one make
cold, what is not warm? And whatever is warm, is life. There
is the postulate and the theorem. We were. We existed. Our
footsteps were on the sand once. And our voices once filled
the air. Who knows this? The sand, the air and ourselves. It
is enough.
We were content. And that made us wise. But, there was a
moment, when the balance of power shifted and the men
beneath our feet were weaker than our jubilance. We were
the masters then. But the ice-cream ended and the reality
resumed. The see-saw shifted. The reins reeled; buried
royalty reigned again.
What remained was memory. And we believed, for we had to
believe, that a moment was more than monument. That
contentment was better than contempt; that wisdom was
better than wealth.
We could eat ice-cream on December days because we
believed. For Ice-cream on a June-blue day was living; icecream in December was survival. The blue days die and the
survivors remember. And the moment, we believed for we
had to believe was more than monument.

Sundays were uneventful and lazy. Work was slow, people

bored and boring, muscles tired, eyes dull and dead. The
eventless Sunday was the ordinary Sunday. But once in
awhile a Sunday will come by which was misplaced. A jetlagged event: a circus or a fair, a thunderstorm, an

earthquake, first snow, last falling leaf. Things that meant to

come on a Monday or a Saturday, but forgot to figure the
time zones when they set off.
Sunday was a bad day to die; Friday was better, Saturday
best. Wednesday or Thursday was abrupt, but death is
unpredictable. Mondays were not much better than
Sundays; no one likes to start the week dead. Death on a
Sunday made the day tense. And a tense Sunday was a cold
spring: the air freezes the rays of the sun, and the shivers
are unnatural. Wils father died on a Sunday. No surprise to
us; the man was sick. Weeks in bed, growing weaker every
week, death in his pallor, in his tongue, his eyes, his veins,
his breath. His room almost a tomb; his bed almost a grave.
Wils father was unlucky. His life was loss. He lost his mother
in birth, his father in boyhood, his wife in adulthood. Had his
work and his health, but these he would lose also. Had his
life, and that, he lost on the 27th of February, a Sunday. To
his son, he left nothing, except his legacy of loss. Yet even
this would be lost on Wil, who would father children, and live
to see his grandchildren.
Wil was quiet that day. We all were. He didnt cry or seem
unhappy. He didnt push us around as usual either. He
worked as he always did: with blunt diligence. But he kept to
himself. Didnt complain. Didnt yell at us. Didnt look back.
All we saw of him was his great back; his hands were hidden
in his hunched form, his face beneath his neck, even his
squatted feet balled up and hid. He was an armadillo that
had seen danger, waiting for it to pass.
I heard the news the a little after midnight the day before.
My father came home somber and sullen and delivered the
news. A few words were exchanged, a few more looks, and
that was the end of it. I was believed to be sleeping and
thus ignorant; better that I was, for bitter are the fruits of
knowledge. The next morning I met Joe and Mike walking to

Richies, we didnt speak, didnt have to speak. Did you

hear? Mikes face said, and I would nod and Joe would
shake his head and look up at the sky. Then wed walk in
silence and see Stan. Stan, whose father died years back,
Stan, who, knew more than anyone, what the news meant,
and wed see him, wave to him, and we didnt have to ask,
didnt have to speak. And we would find Stu already at
Richies, prepping the washcloths and filling the buckets,
getting the soap, and wed meet him, pat his shoulder,
shake hands, and no words needed, no sound, our mouths
dumb before our eloquent eyes. Then wed see Wil,
stumbling in, his pockets full of fingers, his eyes hiding
behind his brow. Wed look, then catch ourselves and wipe
with extra vigor, looking with our ears, predicting actions
with sound, as bats might.
And wed hear the washcloth being squeezed and the water
dripping, the cloth against the granite, or the stone, or the
glass. Slow and steady. No words spoken; no words
necessary.
The work went on, and the sun with it. At noon we brought
out our bags and boxes, traded meat, dairy, wheat, fruit,
vegetables; ate our bartered lunches, feasted fast because
of hunger, savored long because of want.
Squatting on our hams, or leaning on a stone, our stomachs
full, our mouths compelled to speech, we began to whisper.
Shame about Wils dad said Mike, mouth full.
You got a little something no, other side, lower, yeah you
got it. Joe, regarding a bit of sauce on Mikes chin.
I cant even imagine what its like said Stu, peeking at Wil,
who was chewing on an apple.

I can said Stan. We all looked down, ashamed and

embarrassed.
Sorry Stan, I didnt mean
Its fine, Stu. Stan swallowed and looked up at us. You
wanna know how its like?
This was a loaded gun. Stan, Stu didnt mean anything by
it, he was just saying - I said.
I know, but you said you cant imagine it, so Ill tell you.
Stans voice was level.
Stan said Mike. Stan put up a hand to silence Mike,
wetted his lips and looked down at his feet; I think his
memories were there, in the green grass, feeding and
fertilizing it, living and lying in it. He looked up at each of us,
then through us, beyond us.
You ever do something wrong I mean really wrong
something so terrible, that you knew, through and through,
that it was bad?
And we remembered the guilt of our crimes, and the shame
of our sins; our toppled pride and our hung heads.
You remember that feeling you get after youve done that
thing like a sinking or a pulling? Like somebody got a
hold of your stomach and pulled and wouldnt let go?
And we remembered how heavy our stomachs were and
how strong the grip that pulled.
You remember how you couldnt eat? How your stomach
was empty but the food was water? And you knew you had
to eat, had to fill your stomach, but you werent hungry. And
you couldnt make yourself hungry neither.

And we remembered how our stomachs were flat tires, worn

and wasted, empty.
Thats how it is at first. You cant eat, cant sleep. Food
loses its taste, sleep its rest, you feel detached and alone,
your hands and feet are moving by themselves, arent yours
anymore, you feel angry at first, but eventually you just
become numb, cant feel anything. And its not the death
that makes you that way; its the ruined routine, the chaos.
Stan stopped for a second, deep in thought.
Phil, your dad used to take you hunting right? said Stan.
Sure, still does sometimes I replied.
What do you hunt? Stan asked.
Uh, well, birds, theres quail and turkey up north, and uh I
remember we got a doe once, thats about the biggest thing
we got.
Yeah, I went quail hunting once, my uncle and my dad.
Thing about quail is their common birds, but they look like
royalty. Stan smilled a little. They have these, black chins
with white necks, like their wearing pearl. And they have
this yellow belly more like gold and wings like splotched
mud on the road. But their blue chest, now thats really
something - cause when they fly you can see that blue fade
away. And its like they hold the entire sky in their breast.
Its something beyond words a freedom we can never
know. And when we shoot that bird down, and it lays there,
the proud blue against the common brown, the wing broken,
the rich gold covered in the deep red; theres nothing that
can bring back that freedom again. We broke off a piece of
the sky, and cant ever put it back. Thats how it is, your life
gets shattered and the pieces are too sharp and too small to
put back together. Stan looked up with a sad smile.

Well, thats why you get new pieces said Mike. Stan looked
over to Mike and chuckled.
Yeah, I guess thats so said Stan. And we laughed.
We finished what was left of our lunches and returned to our
work. Wil was already to his pillar, armadillo-ing away. We
decided to leave him to his devices. We didnt hate him
(though he gave us ample reason), we simply did not know
what to do. With Stan, it happened before we knew him.
With the others, nothing so serious had ever happened. And
Wils temperament and oversized fists made him
unapproachable. Our muscles of fear flexed far faster than
our sense of sympathy or empathy.
But we did not hate Wil, only disliked him; only feared him.
Only pitied him and his pain, though we did not know his
pain. And tried to imagine it, though we had never felt it.
Tried to understand the scar before the wound had even
bled. And this we could not do, for we had fathers, living and
breathing, and to imagine them dead was a grief too great
for our minds.
Phil, hey Phil Mike had cleaned his way toward my area.
Mike? The hell do you want?
Nothing jeez, finished up so I thought Id help out a friend,
but if theres this much hostility
The hell are you talking about Mike? Theres still green stuff
all over your stone. Mike looked back, realized the futility of
his lie, and tried the truth.
Yeah, whatever, look, you gonna talk to Wil or what?
What? Talk to Wil? Why in the hell

Cause you have a way with words, you know, like a

salesman, or a whats the word a poet.
A poet.
Or a salesman
What in Gods name is wrong with you?
What? It has to be you. Joe and I cant do it, wouldnt be
right. Stans out cause of Stu and Stus out cause well
cause hes Stu. That leaves you. You have to talk to him.
Now Joe was thinking you talk to him after work you know
going home but I say
Mike, I cant do it.
What? Why not?
Because I dont have a way with words, because I bruise
easy, and because I dont think Wil wants to talk about it A
finger raised for each sufficient reason. Q.E.D.
How do you know that? How can you know that Phil? I
walked away, but these problems walk with you.
Know what?
That he doesnt wanna talk about it
Well damn, Mike, if he wanted to talk about it, why doesnt
he? He hasnt opened his mouth all day, hasnt yelled at us
like usual, hasnt checked up on us, hasnt even turned
around and looked at us once. Just leave the guy alone.
Well, give him a break, his Dad just died.
Jesus, Mike, thats what Im saying. Something like that
doesnt make you too talkative.

Well Phil, I think youre wrong, and so does everybody

else.
Whatever just leave me alone.
Talk to him Phil, you have to talk to him.
Whether it was the voice or the weather, the idea of a
restless Sunday or the nagging or the tragedy, the
responsibility or the risk or the cowardice; the dam of reason
burst and a flood of anger reddened my face and cracked
my cheeks.
Goddammit, Mike Im not gonna talk with him!
Hey, whats going on over there? The familiar rolling
thunder; it was Wil.
Nothing I answered.
Yeah, nothing said Mike. We turned to walk away, but Wils
gorilla strides cut off our escape.
Hold on said Wil. And we turned back. And there was the
face and the eye that was hidden. Mike, why arent you
working? Theres shit all over your stone.
Yeah, youre right; Ill get right on it. Mike turned.
Hold on, Mike. And again, Mike turned. Wil turned toward
me. What happened? Wil grabbed my shoulder.
Nothing Wil its nothing. I tried to shrug his hand away;
the grip tightened.
What. Happened? A level voice, but O! How the thunder
could hide its shades of sounds.
Wil, its nothing, I was trying to-said Mike.

I dont want to hear nothing from you Mike. Phil, what were
you yelling about? Wil did not turn, and his face was level
with mine. The hand was a vise now. There was no arguing
with him, there was no debate. I was speaking with a tiger
on the hunt, with an angry, blind rhinoceros and words
cannot stop a charge, or sinking teeth. I said nothing.
Not talking huh? Ok. I think I can guess, it was about me
right?
Oh, come on Wil said Mike.
Mike, not one word. Not one word said Wil and still his face
was level.
What was it about? Me? Nah, my dad right? So you know
hes dead? Having a good laugh over my dead old man?
Ah, so it was never about us. Bubbled anger must pop, and
it will take the first needle it finds.
Hey I dont blame you. Guy was a deadbeat, a loser. Didnt
earn a penny in his life, couldnt work. Unlucky. And one hell
of a father, making his son do all the work. It is real funny.
Eloquence we had never heard in the beast, frothed forth.
We watched, but we didnt believe. We heard, but we
couldnt understand. And we didnt know it at the time, but
the disbelief and the wonder were shared with everyone.
The conversation was too loud to be missed by our ears. We
could not see, but Joe and Stu had stopped cleaning. We
could not hear, but Stan had begun walking toward us.
Good riddance, right? A guy like that might not even bury
im. Leave in a ditch somewhere to feed the flies. At least
then hed be doing a service. And Wil laughed.
Then, there was a flash and the great goliath was grounded.
Over him stood Stan clasping his raw red hand, his face a

scowl. But Stans face was not accustomed to the hard lines
of anger, and they evaporated. Stan turned to look at us; we
saw pity and pain. And we turned and went back to our
work, for there was nothing to say.
With our eyes we saw Wil remain on the ground, his back
smooth and slow with breathing. With our ears we heard
Stan offer his good hand, and his good hand slapped away.
Wil picked himself up and grunted and shuffled away. Stan
walked back, testing his fingers, slow and sad. Each to his
station, each to his work. Silent.
Breath became difficult and sound taboo. We dared not look,
and to speak was to risk wrath. We waded in silence-thick
air. And it crept into our ears and seeped into our brains.
Muffled our hearts, dried our voices. Our hearing a silencesense; our movements slow; our minds attuned to sound,
ready to recoil. We wanted to yell. And thus we worked.
The sun grew bored of us and turned its eye away. The air
thinned and froze and the pale patient moon lighted our
breaths. We packed up our tools and began to walk home.
And we were careful of Wil and Stan.
Wil said Stan. And all the thickness of the air shattered.
Wil stopped. We were yards behind, but we could see the
corner of the crushed lip glowing pale blue.
Wil, Im sorry said Stan. Wil grunted.
You punched me Stan. Said Wil.
I know said Stan
It hurt Wil faced Stan, but his face was hidden in the
shadow.
Stan scratched his head and looked down. I know

It was a good punch, still cant feel my lip.

Stan snapped up. Wil I
I know, Stan, I know. Butthe money. Wils voice trailed
into the deep dark. We inched closer.
Money for what? said Stan.
For the old man, you know for his. Wil sighed. I
checked, we spent all of it, theres enough left for the rent
but thats it. After all that, I cant even bury im And here
we saw a sight so bizarre, so terrible, that our souls fled the
flesh for a few moments. The great lion was bleeding, the
tigers foot caught in a trap, and we saw weakness. Little
salty pioneers leaving tracks on the unfamiliar terrain.
Wil, you know Id give said Stan.
Dont - I swear just leave it Stan. said Wil. And Stan
nodded and looked away, pensive. We had closed in on the
two. All were grim-faced and eyeing the ground. The
thickness of the silence returned and we stood with our
backs to the wind.
Stood we there for a minute or a day or a lifetime? O! Fickle
memory, how watery you are and in the depths how black
the vision, and what risk there is in diving!
Well said Mike and could not say more. Stan looked up
at Mike and nodded and turned and walked. And we
followed. Muffled hearts beating to the tune of a slow walk.
A silent march. We got to the heavy gates and the stone
walls, and then Stu, who was third in our march, stopped.
Lets bury him here The faintest whisper, as if the wind
murmured it in our ears.

Whatd you say Stu? asked Joe. Even in the dark I could
see Joes little eyes focus their black points.
Stu stayed silent. Then Did you say something Stu? asked
Stan. Wil, who was oblivious, walked back to us. Stu looked
at Stan and then at each of us.
Lets bury him here he said, and it was not the wind that
spoke.
An ordinary Sunday, uneventful and lazy; but too tense, the
air too thick, the breath too short, for a Sunday.

Dead bodies are heavy.

On the shoulders mostly, or the arms if youve grabbed the
legs, or the back if youre in the middle. Maybe the legs
because of the walking and the dirt. Maybe the feet if it
rained the night before and its wet and muddy. Maybe the
heart if youre related, the mind if youre uncomfortable, the
soul, if youre afraid.
Dead bodies are too heavy to carry alone.
You need a few men. Two is the minimum, one in the back
and one in front. Theyd have to be strong men, able-bodied
and well-built, able to bear the heaviness on their shoulders,
able to march tall, chin up, back straight, bodies unbent by
burden. Still, some bodies are heavier than others. In that
case you might need three men or four. Two in the back and
two in front. Carry the body on your shoulders, like a steel
beam or a log. Strength is not an issue with three men, and
the shoulders of four men are not weak. But height can be
an issue. You dont want the body lopsided, or one man
carrying more than his share. You might group by height. Let
the shorter men take the feet, the taller men, the head. Now
the bodys on an incline, but the grip is good, and four
shoulders are strong.
Dead bodies are too heavy to carry in the dark.
You need a light-man, a scout. Man who watches, shines.
Might get a flashlight or a lantern, a clear sky with a full
moon if hes lucky, an old torch if hes not. But he needs
good eyes and quick legs, a small voice. Needs to shine the
way, whisper the way. Needs to warn, push, goad, guide.
Needs to miss nothing, catch the holes and pitfalls, the
muddy pools, the sun rising. Needs to keep the pace, keep
the peace, keep the lead, keep going. The light-man doesnt
complain, because he doesnt carry the body. The light-man
doesnt carry the body, because light is heavy enough. The

light-man never slows, never stops. Moves forward patiently,

easily. Knows stopping is failure, defeat, suicide. So he
moves forward slowly, heavily. Leaves his imprints on the
mud, deliberately. Makes himself known, his presence real,
his light fading, waning, dying, shining, silently.
Dead bodies are too heavy to carry in secret.
A rear guard is useful. With good eyes, better than the lightmans, because the guard doesnt have a light. A flexible
neck is good, but a sixth sense is better a zenith created
by the sharpness of all senses. Smell the rain and the dirt,
the rain in the dirt, the dirty, moldy, muddy, muck. Hear the
squelch of hard boots crashing on the soft and the wet. Feel
the sweat on your skin, taste dryness on your lips, moisture
in the air, on your tips: your nose, your fingers. Squint in the
dark and hope. Hope no one squints back. Sharpen your
senses in the darkness, whet your eyes, your ears, your
skin, your lips, your nostrils in the blackness. Just look, stare,
peek. Snap your neck to and fro. Be paranoid, then assured,
then silent melted. Let the hair on your neck stand on its
own, let the crown of your head tingle. Hope there are no
other eyes squinting, legs following, ears hearing your
stampede. Be afraid and hope, be confident and hope, be
silent and hope. And the silence chokes your voice and the
darkness suffocates your eyes, you cant smell in the stink,
cant hear in the loudness of your own heart, drumming
away. Your mind wanders in the dark. Are bats afraid of
silence? Can the dead under the grass feel our steps? Is God
nocturnal? You remember lullabies your mother never sang,
voices she never had. Your thoughts are lost in the darkness;
you are lost in thought. Then you trip, someone chuckles,
someone smiles, someone hushes, someone blushes,
maybe you. Then the attention comes back again, the
senses meld and melt again, sharpen again toward the
zenith. All there is to do is hope.
How heavy dead bodies are!

.
No good business can take place in the night. The darkness
changes the nature of the place. In the morning, Richies
was work, in the night Richies was working. Keeping the
dead tucked away in its folds, the stars having kissed the
dead to sleep. Digging in the dark is a crime, as rousing a
dreaming child is a crime. The heart knows it, as the shovel
knows it, as the soil knows it. Even the long buried know it
and chuckle into the wind from their graves.
Its cold tonight Mike was wearing his boots but did not
have the foresight to remember his coat.
No shit hey Stu hand me that shovel, yeah short one,
thanks youre not wearing a coat, Mike. Still, it is cold Joe
had his coat but he had cold blood it took him longer than
others to get warm.
Come on Stu, put your back into it Mike, again
Enough, Mike, the dirts concrete, the water mustve
frozen Stan this time.
Everybody hush, I hear something Everything stopped.
The scritch-scratch of the shovels, Wils murmuring prayers,
bodily functions, breathing. Unblinking eyes dried and
watered, ears attuned to the silence, noses to the smells,
eyes to the darkness. The lantern was covered with a coat.
Hearts ticked-tocked uneven seconds.
Mustve been a cat or something
Mike breathed out sharply. Fuck Phil, you trying to put us in
the graves too?
I thought I heard something, sorry I shrugged a little.

Breathing resumed, the shovels bit in to the Earth, Wil went

back to his Amens and Hallowed be thy names, senses
dulled, muscles relaxed and ached, the lantern was
uncovered. Sounds resumed again. Slicing of the shovels,
dull thump of the heart, Wils stifled, occasional, sobs and
swallows the ones we werent supposed to hear. And the
work resumed.
Digging is silent work. No speech is required, no verbal
coordination, no commands or orders. Each man to his own
plot, his own shovel, his own method. Even so, there were
some who liked to whistle or hum or sing. And sometimes
others would join in and the rhythm of the rhyme would
filter down into the shovels, and the digging would become
dance. But there was no humming here, there was no
whistling, there was no song here. Each man dug to the beat
of his heart, to the tempo of his breath. Therein was his
rhythm, his rhyme, his dance. And there it stayed, for a
grave is no place for a dance, nor a cemetery for a song.
Digging requires skill. Skill that is obtained in the process.
Must be felt rather than learned. Must be dug out rather
than discovered. Digging is difficult, but the body knows
what to do, as the shovel does, as the earth does. The
fingers know where to grip, the feet where and how to
stand, the back when to extend, the arms when to contract.
The ground knows when to give away and when to stand
firm. It knows when to be agreeable and soft or vicious and
stubborn. It knows how to test the patience of the digger,
the sharpness of the steel, the necessity of the cause. The
shovel knows at what angle he must penetrate the earth. He
knows how to be patient for the digger. He knows how to
wait. And the digger knows it is only time that holds him.
Only time, that keeps him from this knowledge. And so he
digs. And his fingers are clumsy and his feet are misplaced,
misaligned, his muscles ache of inefficiency, inexperience,
inability. But he digs on, and the beat of his heart pounds in

his ears, and the tempo of his breath beat in his lungs and
gradually, imperceptibly, inevitably the shovel becomes his
shovel and the earth, his earth and the knowledge, his
knowledge.
Digging was the important thing. The thing we understood,
felt, even loved. For love comes with understanding. But the
reasons were unimportant, the necessity was unimportant,
the action itself was unimportant. We could not understand
these things. We could not wrap our minds around them.
Fish swim without thinking of the ocean, trees grow skyward
without ever dreaming of the clouds, we dug without
understanding the hole. To us there was a body to buried, a
hole to be dug, a shovel to dig with, hands to hold the
shovels, muscles to apply the force, mind to bring the work
to completion. And that was the extent of our knowledge.
There was no illusion to us, there was no grandeur. We did
not consider ourselves innovators, mavericks, iconoclasts.
We did not consider the work to be profound or sublime. We
did not consider that there was meaning in our work. We
never even bothered looking.
Whatever thoughts flitted into our minds, dissipated with the
digging. Whatever emotions were felt in our hearts faded
from our souls. And all of it went into the hole, filled up hole,
emptied into the hole. And the more we dug the greater the
hole was and the more space it had to empty us. So that
even the most burdened of us grew quiet, even the wisest of
us had nothing to think, even the wittiest, nothing to say.
Wils prayers became a chant in tune with his shovel. Amen
and amen and amen. His tears fell in the void and were
swallowed; their source fell in the void and was swallowed.
Stans furrowed brow disappeared under drops of lantern-lit
sweat. His gaze was within the hole, his un-furrowed brow
held no secrets; his mind was unoccupied, vacant, emptied
into the hole he was creating. Mike and Joe had no jokes to

make, no wisecracks, no puns, their humor was sapped from

them.
And the hole grew larger. And the lantern-light did not reach
the hole. Became a void within the void, darkness within
darkness. We would have been afraid, if fear were not
emptied of us. Instead we were solemn, silent, somber. We
were numb. We no longer felt the cold, or the sadness or the
boredom. They were taken from us. Stolen. Wil went on with
his Amens but they were breathed out, like the whistling of
an engine, Stan with his sweating but that was like the
water poured over an overheating mechanism, Mike and Joe
with their frowning silence and that was like the faceless
emotion of the automaton. We were no different from our
shovels now. In mechanism, in thought, in purpose, we were
one. And the hole grew larger.
Time passed, seconds melded and melted into minutes. And
we were unaware of the hours, unaware of the Earths
returning rotation. And all at once the hole was a grave and
our fears, our exhaustion, our sorrow, our wit, our wisdom,
were returned to us, our shovels fell from tired hands, our
senses rejoiced in their return, and our work was done.
Well its done Stu meant to whisper this, but in silence
there are no whispers.
Yup, a hole fit for a king drawled Mike.
Stu smiled at little at the joke and Joe snickered. Stan gave a
quiet chuckle and Mike joined in, then I began laughing. And
a chain was begun and each laugh led to another and each
was louder than the one before, each deeper, each more
heartfelt. Even Wil barked out his grunting guffaws. But the
joke was unfunny and our jubilance was unjustified. It was
not that we were laughing at something or with something,
but laughing something away. W did not know what it was.
When we dug the hole, we dug out something within

ourselves, and it made us uncomfortable, nervous, afraid.

And the laughter let us forget our troubles. But it would not
last. For sound is carried far and quick in the dark night, and
our voices were alone too soon.
Well, lets put him in, well say a few words and then cover
it up Stan looked at Wil for confirmation.
Wil was staring at the covered body and did not hear Stan.
We all looked at Wil now. He felt our eyes watching, looked
up, then down again, finally he let go a terse nod.
The solemnity came back again, the silence came back
again, the fear came back again, the nervousness and the
discomfort came back again.
Four of us had carried the body on their shoulders but none
now wanted to touch it. It was too close now, it was too
human. To carry a log on our shoulders is easy, to carry a
steel beam or a stone pillar, to the carry the body when it
was only weight was easy. But it was not weight anymore.
The features of the face could be felt through the thin cloth,
and the form of the body could be discerned, we could see
the shape of the feet in the darkness, the form of the nose,
the curve of the gut. Who could touch this thing, this body,
this man? And we began to understand what it is we were
doing, had done, were about to do. But still, there was no
grandeur about us; we were too simple for grandeur.
Well, come on, the suns gonna rise in a few hours, I need
at least one other guy to hold the feet said Stan. And we
obeyed. Stu and I grabbed the feet and Wil, Joe and Mike,
took the head, and arms. One, two, three, and the deed was
done, and the body the man was planted.
Wil kept his stare at the body, as if expecting it to spring
back to life. Stan looked around, first at each of us, then at
the body, then finally at Wil.

Well, anybody wanna say a few words? Wouldnt be right if

we didnt said Stan.
Wil looked up and we finally saw his eyes, usually hidden
under his heavy brow. Sore and sad, an anomaly we had not
seen, the likes of which we do not expect to see again. A
comet which passes once a hundred years. Wil with his tearstained cheeks, and red eyes, and tired brows and we did
not know him. And then suddenly, the brow furrowed, and
the eyes hardened, and the Wil was our Wil.
My father was good man said Wil. He loved his family, did
his work as best he could, he provided. The brief faade
was beginning to fade. Wil swallowed back a sob. He was a
good man, a fine man, a pious man. So God, please dont
hold this against him. We had no choice; its not his sin to
bear. Its not his fault. So please, just dont And the
speech was drowned.
Stan stepped forward to pat Wils back, but decided against
it. Anyone else? he asked. No one answered, for what had
we to say? Well, alright, I guess I can say a little
something said Stan. And at this we were attentive, for
what had Stan to say? Stan cleared his throat, looked down
at a body for some silent seconds, and then began:
Most of us dont know this man here. Whether he was kind
or good, whether he was strong, or smart, or decent isnt
something we can know. All that we know is that hes dead,
and that we dug a hole for him, and built a grave for him.
And that this grave is in Richies, the place of our work and
the place of his work What we did is a crime. Is called a
crime, by the owners of this land. Because it isnt our land, it
isnt our place of rest, it isnt our home, its the home of the
rich, its the place of rest of the rich. Stan paused here,
gathering his eloquence. No one breathed, there was
something in the words which we knew, which we felt deep

in our bones, an ache we had long stifled, and in breathing

we would lose this thing, and we mustnt lose it yet.
What is a sin? A man might work at a place, might work
land and the land does not belong to him. And the land can
never belong to him. Though he work there in all of his
breath, in all the beats of his heart, and knows it better than
the owners, and understands it better than the occupants,
he can never find rest there. Because it is not his land, it is
never his land. Another pause, it was coming out now, the
words organized themselves into rhythm, into music. There
was something here which we understood. There was a
great welling up within us. A great sadness long suppressed
was rising up, a wave, a storm, and the rain was oh-so near.
I ask you, what is a sin? A man might work in a home he
can never take solace in, for the home is not his own. And all
the time he keeps after homes better than his and can only
dream after a nice bed and good sleep. But he can never
have it, for a good home is not his, and a good bed is not
his. Stan paused again, because the storm had arrived and
the rain was pouring down. The sadness streamed from our
silent faces, a great welling up of water and salt from deep
within had erupted on our cheeks. We did not understand
our tears, they were for Wils father, but only a little, they
were for us, but were greater than us. And we could not
understand things greater than us. Stan wiped his eyes and
continued.
So what is a sin? We bury this man here; dig for him a
home that is not his. That was never his. And this is a crime,
because for us to find rest is a crime. Evil is a sin, yes, and
crime is a sin. And we are all sinners, all, because poverty is
a sin, because not having a home to rest in is a sin. And not
having the means to get a home is a sin. And not being able
to pay the toll to heaven is a sin. We stole this mans toll for
him and that is a sin. We snuck this man into heaven and
that is a sin. Because he was born a sinner, as we were. And

he lived his life as a sinner, as we do. Worked as a sinner, as

we will, as we must. And we stole him into heaven and we
buried him a saint. May he find the rest he has only dreamt
of. Stan whispered a few lines of an unknown tongue,
perhaps a prayer. Wiped his eyes again with his sleeve, took
a handful of dirt, streamed it into the grave. We did same in
turn, Wil being the last.
We filled the grave and patted it with our feet so the dirt
was even and the grave was hidden. Then we picked up the
lantern, picked up the shovels, picked up ourselves and
walked to the Wall, tired and slow. Walked home, sleepy and
sad. And each man to himself, by himself, though he walked
with another. His mind full and his stomach empty. His
shoulders light and unburdened and his eyelids heavy with
sleep. His thoughts muddled and messy made clear with
fatigue. His feet moving without thought, walking their path,
walking to his home, tiptoeing to his bed, lying still, as he
does. And he sleeps. Dreams. Forgets.
Truth is a strange thing. Much like a star. Too far away and it
can be enveloped by the darkness, can be hidden, forgotten.
To close, and the brilliance burns too bright, burns through
the body. And such was our truth that we kept it in our
bones and let it burn silently and did not understand it, did
not even know it was there. For there were other truths to
worry about. The truths we understood. Warmth on a
winters day, and a full stomach at night, smiles from a full
supper, a peeled apple, a shared sweet. The radiance that
came from the stomach when the loaf of bread was brought
home, or the piece of meat, or the handful of rice, or a
sweet, once-warm, cherry pie bought with our toil, with our
sweat. These were the truths we knew. And the extent of our
knowledge. And the burning truths faded from our memory,
from our mind. For what stars can be seen in the presence
of the sun?

But the stars are always there, burning, aching. Shining

whether we notice them or not. Waiting and stars can wait
a long time for the night, for the sun to set. And when they
finally appear, they are magnificent and terrible.
There is no place for truth in Richies. There is no place for
logic. There is no place for order. There is only one principal
in Richies, one basic law: things are buried here, planted,
placed, never found, never dug out, never uncovered.
Whether it be the truth buried within, or the bodies buried
beneath, or the hopes and dreams buried under reality,
recovery is always impossible.
And so it was with Stans eulogy. Tears shed and words
spoken. Elegant, eloquent, true, buried. Once, buried within
ourselves, now, buried within the ground. And there was no
changing this, for Richies was not a place of change. The
sun would rise again. The morning would come again. We
would awake again. We would work again. Clean again.
Laugh again. Cry again. Unchanged, inevitable. Words
spoken, words written, words forgotten. As they must be
forgotten, for the work to continue, for the sun to rise again.
No end to the un-truth, to the falsehood, for there never was
a beginning. Again and again and again, till today and
tomorrow and yesterday are a continuum, a blur, a second
stretched out upon a lifetime, upon an eternity. Then the
second passes, the moment is over. And if we are lucky, we
might find ourselves stolen into heaven, sleeping a
dreamless sleep we could only dream of.