Friend and Box.

An echoing heartbeat, pulsates at the tips of my fingers, as I carry you up the dirt-laden hill. I do not expect that the memory will ever dissipate. It may, perhaps, leave in intervals — evaporating into clouds that follow overhead, in a slow descent, until the pressure becomes too much, and that cloud — now gray, and roiling — spills its memories. At that point, I will remember. Waterlogged, the rain dripping from my cheeks, melding with thin streams of tears, I will sit for a moment and relive the memories.

Pulling the box that will ever-cradle you — even long after I, too, have left — I am overcome by weight that is difficult to hold, alone. The weight is not physical, I can carry you just fine. It is your memory that tugs with a gravity, all its own. In these moments, feeling that weight, I can only rest. I lean against the wooden-box and weep; though, it may only be brief. Running my fingers along the hard wooden edges of the box, I try to think — no — remember… I try to remember the happiness that I would not have had, without you.

Your joy, the electricity of it, still courses through the lives you touched; it sparks laughter, bringing tears outward that resonate with felicity — rather than the, otherwise, melancholy-air.

I lift myself again, holding your box in one arm; I lift my shovel with my empty hand. A smile forms at one side of my trembling lips, as I, again, watch echoes of you swirl somewhere within the white clouds overhead. The shovel drags behind me, too heavy to carry, with you in my other hand. You will like it, this place that lies at the end of this journey. Though the ground below us is merely rubble and dirt, there will be grass beyond — just over the crest of the hill.

The weight pulls at my shoulders, once more. I struggle against the gravity, leaning my head against the top of the box; I clench my eyes, gritting my teeth, as I continue on. We are almost at the top of the hill now, you and I. There are only a few steps to go. It would be best to simply wait, and rest against the soft grass that awaits our arrival.

Fields. Only fields of shimmering grass now lay in front of me — in front of us. Carrying the box out a bit further, I finally set it down in the blades of soft grass. The sun begins to set, and I have yet to dig-out the space where you will forever rest.

Beads of sweat drip from my brow, softening the dark soil beneath the earth, while I dig in front of the descending sun. I feel as though the sunset takes longer on this particular day. Perhaps the sun also mourns you in these hours, as I do. Maybe it, too, feels a small piece of itself, that slowly dims — a black-spot, that will never again glow, as it had once before.

I enter the hole in the ground, first, gently easing you and the box, from the torn ledge above. I place you against the soft dirt, and lean, for the last time, against the top of your resting home; the wood soaks-up my tears.

A tamp of the shovel now, against the last of the dirt that covers your shallow grave, and the last rays of the sun are finally snuffed out by the pervading night sky. I take some broken branches from a nearby grove — they had already been laid at the base of the tree, waiting for me, it would seem. Taking them, I pile them over your grave and light a small fire. I stare at the wisping flames as they dance in an energy that reminds me of you, my friend. Boisterous, the flames eventually call out to the stars overhead — I had not, until now, even noticed how bright the stars have become.

I see now, that they dance too — a midnight ballet, glimmering in the black void above me. Streams flow outward over the planet, the thin tails of comets as they pass by us. I will sit and watch awhile more, as you would have sat here beside me, to do the same.

Happily, we would have yelled to the moon together, just to hear our voices echo over the mountains. And, when the tears stream down my face, you would ask me what was wrong — even if the reason was something you simply did not understand. Even in this moment, with your loss, you would probably question why I am not choosing to enjoy the open fields around me. Why I do not run through the grove of trees nearby…

And even though you would want to run across those open pastures — though you would love to bounce through the grove of trees — you would instead choose to sit beside me, waiting until the tears were to subside-

Until I too, wished to run with you in the fields.

It is why I miss you. It is why your heart still beats against the tips of my fingers.

It is why, no matter what happens in the years to come, I will return to this place, over and over again. I will trudge up the hill, sometimes falling against the dirt, as the clouds above me burst into rain, and I will sit here. I will rest beside you, sometimes staring at the stars in perfect silence, and other times I will remind you of the moments of laughter and joy. I will repeat the same stories, over again, making sure that I remember them-

Until, one day, it is someone else’s turn to place me here — next to you. Then we will stare, together, at the glimmer of the stars as they dance, and remember what it feels like to run across an open field, below a mourning sun.

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