The Gravestone

Have you ever seen your own gravestone? I sure hope you never do.

Catching sight of your final resting place, even momentarily, will scare the bejesus out of the most hardened non-believer. It is a most extraordinary and extra-ordinary sight. Extraordinary from a who-would-have-believed-this-possible perspective, and extra-ordinary from a well-its-not-such-a-surprise-as-we-will-all-end-up-here perspective. It really is quite extraordinarily extra-ordinary.

Be that as it may – nothing can prepare you for the sight of your own untimely (is it ever timely?) demise. Nor can you ever quite be prepared for the sight of the most unflattering image that your loving husband has chosen for your tombstone. What, you thought he had your best interests at heart - always? Turns out he never even had your best interests at heart whilst it was still beating. And he sure didn’t when he half-heartedly chose the words and image for your final resting place.

How is it even possible I saw this eerie sight; I hear you ask? And I’m sure you’re curious as to what I was even doing in this graveyard in the first place.

Questions I have also asked. Unfortunately, I am surrounded by deathly silent Confederates who have mastered the art of keeping to themselves – even from their fellow Southerners. No gossip to share, or heart-to-hearts from this lot. Not even a whisper from the ancient trees who watch over their charges like prison guards, swaying silently to the music of the wind.

My questions have remained unanswered. Until tonight.

In a flash of lightning, I have been – quite literally – enlightened. That old saying is sadly true; be careful what you ask as you may not like the answer. Or is it: seek and ye shall find? Either way, I have found – and I do not like the answer.

Even as a child, I always gravitated to this old graveyard in times of conflict and stress. Conflict between my parents, conflict caused by the mean girls at school, and conflict in my own heart when my first love kissed my best friend at the year-end Ball. I always found myself back in the graveyard where I could be distracted, even comforted, by the quiet stories on the familiar gravestones. Sometimes I felt more comfortable surrounded by these old friends than with living souls with beating hearts. And as the years have passed, I have continued to find solace and peace amongst the granite angels and crosses.

During the war years, I found myself visiting my sanctuary regularly as the threat of the Yankees loomed ever nearer. Threatening our customs and way of life with their abolitionist views, the only place I could escape was amongst the bones of my forefathers who had lived and loved in simpler times. As you well know, our War for Southern Independence ultimately resulted in a devastating loss, but little did I know how that loss would be overshadowed by my own.

My graveyard was my escape, and now it is my prison.

At least that’s how it seemed in that first flash of blinding lightning. My story would sound so much more atmospheric if I could at least describe the setting as a dark and stormy night, with raindrops that slashed at the turbulent air in their malevolent fury. But the lightning simply flashed out of nowhere and caught me by complete surprise. Followed by confusion, the obligatory shock, and then a wave of familiar frustration as I read the words written about me momentarily showcased by the freak lightning flash:

 Lucy James. Rest in Peace. A true Southern heart. Died 31 October 1863.

 That’s it? That’s IT? Where are the proclamations of undying love and abject misery? The soliloquy of my virtues highlighting how I was loved by all, and the path of blessings and happy memories I left in my wake?

 All I can see, however, is a path to oblivion. And don’t get me started on that dreadful image of me on the granite.

That first lightning flash got me thinking. The image of those trite words devoid of emotion and the carelessly etched image was a clear message that my perception of Nick’s feelings for his darling wife and soulmate was perhaps not an accurate reflection of the truth. Suddenly my graveyard did not seem peaceful and welcoming, but a little sinister and foreboding.

 I had come here earlier to find solace against the turmoil in my mind and the suspicion that weighed heavily on my heart, and must have fallen asleep with my back against my favourite headstone:

 Carolyn Matthews taken by the Typhoid. Adored in life and eternally mourned in death by her forever-loving husband and soulmate. I shall count the days until our hearts beat as one again and our souls are joined in eternal ecstasy.

 Now that’s more like it. That is what I would expect to see. Not that one ever expects such a moment to arise – but if it were to arise, then a similar message is what I would have expected from Nick.

 As the brilliance of the unexpected flash faded back into the dusky twilight of early evening, however, it became comfortingly clear that the disturbing image was only an illusion. A mirage of my own insecurity combined with the fading light of a traumatic day and the resulting bone-wearying tiredness.

The innocuous headstone was not mine after all, but a different Luci-with-an-I, who had lived to the ripe old age of 30 before shedding her mortal coil for the anonymity afforded by her one-lined epitaph. She may have been my exact age, but she certainly was not me.

 The relief was a wave of gratitude as I realised my folly. The eve of all hallows in all her spine-chilling glory was playing her ghoulish tricks on me, and my own inner conflict had created the perfect storm.

 Damn Nick to hell for driving me to this point.

The second flash of brilliance, however, lasted a few seconds longer, and again Lucy-with-a-Y (that’s me!) flashed up on the gravestone. This time, however, there were two trench-coated figures silhouetted behind the stone. Two very familiar figures. But as quickly as my bottom jaw dropped closer to the ground, so the image faded as the lightning sizzled out, and again I found my gaze riveted on the other Luci-with-an-I’s black marble stone. Her etched image stared back at me with a newly acquired look of sympathy in her one-dimensional eyes.

“Yes,” she seemed to be saying, “You know who they are”.

 Tearing my eyes away from her, I berated myself for allowing the spirit of the day and my own accusatory vulnerability to get the better of me. Perhaps it was time to leave these old bones and their sad stories behind, go home to the land of the living, and free myself of the shackles of suspicion.

Nick wouldn’t risk everything we had built together. Surely, he wouldn’t do that to me. Surely, he loved me! Didn’t he?

The third electrifying flash sizzled through the clear sky creating the most brilliant revelation yet. The trench-coated couple were back and this time they shared a passionate kiss. Against this sombre setting, the intensity of their embrace was even more explosive. My now heightened awareness could sense their hearts beating together in unity and their shared sentiment battered my ears and reverberated through my bones like a powerful chant.

 My romantic soul would have appreciated this picture-perfect moment caught in the spotlight of the illuminating firebolt - if the main actors had not been my Nick and my best friend from years gone by, Alice.

 I could not trust them 12 years ago at the year-end Ball and I clearly could not trust them now either!

Although our friendship had somewhat clawed its way back from the precipice of a violent death thanks to her attempt to steal my beau, our vastly different ideology was, in fact, the final nail in the coffin. Alice is a Yankee supporter with her ridiculous union ideals and notions, and I am a staunch grey coat. Needless to say, we drifted apart quickly after the war began. I have not seen Alice since Charleston was ripped apart by the bombardment of Fort Sumter, but clearly, Nick has space in his world for her traitorous heart and beliefs.

The final lightning flash lit the entire graveyard like a Guy Fawkes bonfire, and the finale was displayed for all my silent neighbours to enjoy. Alice and Nick, no longer trench coat-clad, holding hands at the graveside of his wife, and her ex-best friend.

 In the fading light of that final flash of realisation my gravestone reveals the truth. Nick never loved me like he loved Alice, and Alice never loved me like she loved Nick. Even our Great Rebellion could not keep them apart.

 Staring at my image again, my horror fades as my eyebrows lift and my head tilts in resignation; I’m actually rather pretty in the etching organised by these two people that did love me – but could not love me enough.

 Time has faded the words on the gravestone and the Y of Lucy now looks like an I, but there is no mistaking my image chosen by Nick and Alice. How were they to know that my heart would literally break when they could no longer hide their love for one another. How were they to know that her Yankee triumph would be my Confederate loss.

The heavy realisation covers me in a blanket of lonely truth. It has been 160 Halloweens since the embrace that was their beginning and my ending. 160 times that I have emerged to the stillness of my silent neighbours, longing for a piece of gossip or a heart-to-heart. But only the trees whisper their silent message to me as they sway to the music of the gathering storm:

 You were loved Lucy, just not enough. Come visit us again next Halloween, we will be waiting for you as always.