The Meaning of Life

(This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago. I stumbled across it again this morning and was wondering what others would think of it!)

-

Sun slips on gray stone

Hidden from the hearts of the living

Nestled safely against the tree.

-

I didn't know how my life would change after a simple visit to the cemetery. I wore my khakis and buttun-up shirt and clutched a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand. It had now been two years since my little boy was taken from me, but I still went to his headstone nearly every day. I held my breath so I wouldn't cry, walking amongst the tombstones towards his shiny, obsidian slab. It had pinwheels all around it--he had loved those--and there was a vase of now withered flowers. I took them out, replacing them with the roses. Leo adored the smell of roses, and he had liked the color yellow. He said it was a happy color. Now all I wanted to do was sob as I looked at the roses' radiance.

I sat there until the sun had begun to sink towards the mountains that framed my little valley. I would have left long ago if little Leo's grave wasn't here. With a sudden sharp, stabbing feeling in my gut, I realized for the millionth time he would never again run to me yelling, "Mommy!" How I missed his voice! He had had the bluest eyes, too, and they were so round and innocent I could never have stayed angry with him long. It tore at my soul that he died right after I had yelled at him for breaking one of my crystal goblets. If I'd had just ten more minutes with him, I would have calmed down and felt bad, taking him into my arms to apologize and tell him how much I loved him.

But I didn't get those ten minutes. Perhaps even five would have been enough....

The sun was almost gone before I noticed another grave. I'm not sure what attracted my attention--perhaps the movement of the young oak tree that grew next to it. I shifted over to the small stone, curious. Why hadn't I seen it before? It was obviously old--beaten and crashed. The larger stone was about the size of half an atlas and was set into the ground with a plaque propped against it the size of an old paperback novel. It was so worn I couldn't read the top line of print, although I thought it started with an "M," which was perhaps the first letter in the name. Underneath the M, however, read the mournful words, "My baby boy."

As I looked at the stone, my sorrow seemed to grow deeper, but for once it was not grief for my own loss. The grave looked so small and insignificant. There were no flowers or toys, not even a date telling me when the child died. How forgotten this little boy must feel! After staring for a moment, I stood, leaned over to my son's grave, and took a single rose from the vase. I placed it on the old stone. There, I thought. Every child deserves something.

I heard a rustling sound then and looked up, startled, to see a little boy staring at me from behind the oak tree. I felt very confused; surely I would have seen him before now? Only the top half of his face was visible, because he was peeking from around the tree. His eyes were round and a little scared. After recovering from my initial shock, I smiled. "Hello," I said. "Are you lost? Where's your mother?"

"She's mad at me," he replied, his voice as tiny as the rest of him. He blinked his round eyes and I felt my heart melt with longing.

"Come on over here, we'll go find her," I said, hoping he would trust me. His mom had to be around here somewhere, and I was sure she was worried. The boy didn't reply instantly, but then he slipped out from behind the tree. I felt another jolt of surprise; he was wearing clothing I would have expected in the early 1900's, with a stiff button coat, grubby pants that must have once been black, and old-fashioned shoes that had nearly lost their shine. His round face was mostly curious and a little lonely looking. I knelt down so our eyes were at the same level. "What's your name?"

"Momma says I shouldn't talk to strangers," he said. His voice was different too. Even though it contained the bright, childish inflections of a toddler, his enunciation was unusually good. Especially compared to people in this backwater area. It as like he'd had the grammar pounded into him despite his young age.

"All right," I said. "I'll introduce myself so I'm not a stranger anymore. My name is Carol."

The boy eyed me for a moment. "I'm Malachi."

Malachi. M. I thought instantly of the abandoned gravestone between us, but I didn't really believe in ghosts. When I looked at the weather beaten stone again, however, I thought I could make out the C and the I. I swallowed hard. "Come on then, Malachi. Let's go find your mother." I began to walk away, figuring he would follow if he wished. He did, staying about five feet behind me. I glanced back with a smile. "Tell me if you see her, okay?"

He looked slightly puzzled but nodded, his little legs striding along as quickly as they could without breaking into a run. I was careful to walk a slightly slower. We wandered throughout the graveyard in silence, looking for a sign that someone--anyone--was here for him. No one appeared. My heart was pounding with the motherly longing to take Malachi and hold him in my arms, especially when I saw the sad, resigned look on his face. Finally, mostly to ease the tense atmosphere, I asked, "How old are you, Malachi?"

"Five," he said in his quiet voice. That's how old Leo would have been, had he lived. I sighed.

"Malachi, I don't think your mom is here. She must have left the cemetery to look for you. Do you want me to keep looking for her?"

He nodded, still hesitant but slowly coming closer to me. We began to walk towards the entrance and I prayed in my heart he would find his mother, and that she would be someone who loved him with all of her heart. Anything less than that and she didn't deserve this little boy. I kept on seeing Leo's sunny smile in my mind's eye, his eyes crinkling and dimples appearing in his cheeks. I had loved my little boy like that. So why was he taken from me? Did I not deserve him somehow?

I stepped out of the cemetery ahead of Malachi and then froze, realizing his footsteps had ceased before coming out onto the sidewalk. I turned around to see nothing but an empty, sloping lawn and lonely old gravestones, looking faded in the evening dusk. I wasn't ready to accept what first popped into my mind, but after searching for an hour and finding no trace of him I went home, feeling worried and trying really hard not to think of the word "ghost."

I brooded about Malachi and my own Leo all night. I didn't answer the phone, and I didn't get a wink of sleep until the early hours of the morning. I awoke around six and gave up on sleep, climbing out of bed and heading straight to the cemetery. I had to know about Malachi.

When I arrived it was gray and misty and I barely thought of my son as I went straight to the grave with the illegible name. I traced my fingers over the faded letters until I was sure it said Malachi. I sat there thinking, not caring about the passing time. Indeed, it seemed as though time went on and on without any real progression, for the day did not grow brighter or warmer or noisier around me, but remained cold and lonely and dream-like.

"Carol?"

I jumped and turned to see Malachi standing behind me. He didn't look like a ghost--he looked warm and solid--but I knew he was. I reached out for him. "Why are you still here, Malachi? I think your mommy is probably waiting for you somewhere else. Why don't you go to her?"

Tears welled in his eyes and he stepped out of my reach automatically. "I can't find her. She's not here--and she's angry at me."

"Why is she angry at you?" I lowered my arms.

"I was a bad boy throwing peaches to Toby," he muttered. "But there weren't toys for him to play with."

"Who's Toby?"

"My dog." He took another step back. "She yelled at me not to do it again, and I told her she was mean. I ran outside...and there was a carriage coming down the street...."

This time he didn't shrink away as I reached out. I scooped him into my arms and held him. He didn't feel warm, even if he looked like he should. His body was like ice, but it was undoubtedly solid. He buried his face against my shoulder and began to sob while the strangest thing happened. I began to see what he could--his memories. I don't know how, I don't know why. But I could.

In my vision, Malachi was sitting in a peach tree. The house behind him and the valley around it looked like it must have a hundred years ago. If I strained my eyes, I could see a few automobiles, but there were mostly horses and carts and carriages. Malachi was laughing, picking a hard, unripe peach and throwing it to a brown Labrador. The front door of the house opened and a young woman came out, holding a ladle and a bar of soap. Her hands were covered with suds and her face was worn with care. "Malachi, get out of that tree! Those peaches are for us to eat when they're ripe, not for the dog to chase! Come down now!"

The look on Malachi's face proved he knew he was in trouble. He slipped out slowly and reluctantly as the dog came to stand by him, tail down. "I told you to stop that yesterday!" the woman continued, angry. "Get inside now! You're to stand in the corner for ten minutes. If you speak to anyone, you won't get dinner!"

Hurt welled up in Malachi's eyes, then anger. "I didn't do hardly anything!" he yelled in his high-pitched voice. "You're mean! You're really mean!" He turned and ran towards the gate, but I could hear the clopping of horse hooves. He pelted through the opening in the fence and there was a terrible yell and the whinnying of a horse as it reared, startled, its hooves flailing. I heard the mother's horrified scream as Malachi was hit in the head.

The scene changed to the cemetery. There weren't huge trees or very many gravestones yet, and the grass was dry and uneven. There was a fresh, small grave, and the polished casket was just being lowered in. The woman I had seen before was sitting beside the grave, looking frail and lost. I knew that look. I could see Malachi's ghost watching from a distance.

Again the scene faded, and I came back to the present. Malachi pulled away from me, wiping his tears away and sniffling. "Mommy was mad at me and I said she was mean," he whispered, almost as though it was tearing him apart. "She probably hates me saying so."

"No, Malachi!" I replied vehemently. "Your mother really does love you. She's waiting for you, I'm sure she is!"

He looked up. "Really?" he asked tremulously. I nodded. I wished more than anything he would just believe me. Children can be so accepting...I wanted him to be like that now.

"She wasn't very angry at you, even if she yelled," I told him. "That's what mothers are like. They might seem awfully mad, but it's just because they're concerned about you. I'm sure she misses you."

Malachi smiled through he tears. "Can I go to her now?"

I nodded. "I'm sure you can."

He stepped away from me, looking around the cemetery. I'm not sure when it had happened, but now it seemed to be full of light, even though the sun was still hidden behind the mountains. "Mommy, I'm sorry!" he called. The light seemed to grow dense around him and then, for the briefest moment, I saw the woman from my vision. She didn't seem careworn anymore, but young and beautiful and overjoyed to see her little boy. Then they were both gone, leaving me alone once more.

I went home feeling different and somehow lighter than I had since Leo died. I realized for the first time I should be grateful for the life I had now. Life is a wonderful thing...and death wasn't the end, merely the next step. The fact that we must progress to a new state gives this life meaning.

And besides, Leo was just waiting until I was ready to come home to him.