Death's Door

“Do you ever stop by dad’s grave?”

It was my brother’s voice, hammering in my head. Disembodied yes, but as condescending and accusatory as at the time he’d delivered it. He was right though, when he’d slipped that little comment in as I was leaving his house on Christmas Eve. I hadn’t been to dad’s grave and we’d buried him that last July.

“Well, I’m doing it now,” I said to no one in particular. I was standing outside the Pleasant Valley Cemetery, just below the wrought iron signage that also formed the gateway to the what looked like a well kept 10 acres or so.

I tapped the icon for the LovedOnes App on my phone and drilled down into the Pleasant Valley Cemetery - something I’d already set up before leaving the house. Clicking the spy glass I put in my father’s name.

Finn McClosky - R15-C21 came up in the search results.

It wasn’t hard traversing the area, weaving between the white stone crosses of veterans and other elaborate conflagrations with angels or open Bibles displaying soothing or holy phrases. There was even a few Mausoleums tucked against the fence on the North end under a copse of ancient oaks.

When I got to where I thought my father’s grave should be, I was surprised to find a row of caraganas that looked to have grown up over top the modest black granite marker. I was taken aback as this was impossible; no tree grew that fast! So I got down on my hands and knees and crawled in under the limbs, parting them and pushing one group to the side with my feet so that I could see the stone face. Unlike the other stones I’d saw while walking through the cemetery, this one had a thick green layer of lichen on it and I soon realized I was going to have to clean it if I were to verify wether I was at the right grave.

My pocket knife clicked into place as I began to scrape carefully at the grime and lichen which defaced the name and dates. When I got the name cleared away I sat back, my jaw opening slightly. It was my name - Ayaan McClosky. Then I proceeded to clean the birth date and sure enough, it lined up with mine.

I was sweating and I wasn’t sure whether it was the effort of scraping or this was beginning to bother me.

“This is some creepy shit,” I said loud enough for anyone nearby to overhear. I was incensed and didn’t care who knew it.

I wiped my forehead, then rubbed at the sweat from around my stinging eyes. The knife moved forward as I began to not-so-gently scrap at the Death Date.

July 25, 2024 it said.

One year from the date my dad passed and some two months from today.

I crawled out from beneath the bushes, brushing and straightening my clothes. Then I put my knife back in my pocket and stood there looking at the stone with my name on it … with my name, birth and death date on it!

“They don’t put up stones with death dates into the future,” a voice said from behind me.

“Must be a mistake,” I replied.

“Sure, just somebody’s idea of a joke,” the voice intoned.

I whirled around, ready to fight. My hands clenched into balls and my teeth squeaked from the jaws that grated on them.

“Who the …,” my words cut short. There was nobody there.

My breathe was coming fast and I began gagging as I felt nausea overwhelming me. My hands planted to my knees as I bent over trying to let the emotions pass. Everything was bright and I lost track of time as I waited patiently for everything to settle.

I left the graveyard after a time, one that I cannot honestly say I know. The sun was low and the shadows stretched out before me like grey puddles. I even needed my lights when I finally joined the main trunk of the freeway.

My mind whirled with questions … and answers.

My name’s not that common! They don’t screw up on grave dates, certainly not into the future. People still go to funerals, right? They’d catch that sort of thing? Why was that grave not kept up like the others?

I had a drink when I got home … and then another. Then the ‘what if’s’ began and I descended into a mind game of what two months could actually mean to me. Even in the remote chance that this was real, what could I do with the time I had left. Could I do something politically? Could I make right with others what I’d wronged. My mind maybe, maybe meditate or pray. When last had I gone to church?

As the sun rose, casting lances of hope into my bedroom, it found me in a different state of mind. I did at least on some level believe the date on the gravestone, and I wasn’t going to waste what little time I had left. Even if I was wrong, moving in a good direction is always better … right?

I set out a plan and put it into operation, the first of which was to clean up my plot. I know, this seems petty, but if it was all a result of that one stone, it would begin and end right there.

My shears took care of the bushes and a wire brush and a scrapper soon cleaned the rest. I planted some flowers in front and with a sigh stood for a while as the sun once again fell towards the horizon.

As I turned to go - or somewhere in the back of my mind willed it into being - I distinctively heard that voice again.

“Aye, tis good.” it said in a familiar accent, one my grandfather reverted to after a few pints.

I remained silent and eventually walked off and back to my car.