Black and Gray at the Cemetery, by Leticia Heath

I was five years old when I walked into the cemetery house. My nose was filled with strange and exotic smells. I immediately thought of a bakery, not because it smelled sweet or luxuriously delicious, but because it was the exact opposite. There was a musky scent in the air and also the putridly sweet smell of sweat.

“Come on,” my grandmother cooed to me tugging me towards the entrance of the cemetery ground.

People were already gathered around a part of the burial ground entrance a few had tears in their eyes. I was confused and worried I didn’t know why they were crying, but I guessed it was because of something important.

This old country graveyard was not like the one you probably would see when you drive down a street. No, this one doesn’t have green grass or beautiful real, red roses or daisies around the gravestones like the others. This one is different with stones and gravel instead of grass, and fake plastic flowers that can withstand the heat stroke warm weather.

I fidgeted as more and more people started to gather. My grandmother was into a conversation with others in the family so I was left alone for the time being. I crouched down and looked at the rocks slightly touching one of them, but pulled my hand away as soon as I did because the sun had turned them to hot coals.

The long journey from Salt Lake City to Green River had been a fun voyage. My grandmother and I had spoken a bit, and she had told me about what would happen at the burial. I knew that in order to have a funeral you need a graveyard, and I was reminded of stories I had heard from a few boys at school. They stated that crows and even wolves were the keeper of souls. I had grasped the chance to tell my grandmother about this, and once I told her she said not to fret over it, because it was only an old fairytale; a made up story.

“It’s starting,” someone said, and we all began to crowd around a large black casket.
Someone stood up and began to speak. I caught a few words but my mind was elsewhere, I was watching big black birds circle in the sky and I spotted a fuzzy figure watching from a thick sage brush. “Grandma May . . . we all loved her . . . died on Christmas.” These were a few things I managed to catch from words I was hearing.

Grandma May that name didn’t really ring a bell, but at the sight of all the sad, depressed faces I took her to be an important person. Slowly I rose up on my tiptoes holding onto my grandmother’s arm for balance. The big black casket was open and what I could see shocked me. A pale face, eyes closed and slight redness to the cheeks was all I could make out with the large crowd blocking my view. Shivers ran up and down me as if I was standing in the middle of a snow storm instead of in the warm desert with my family.

The voices continued speaking about Grandma May, and as they did something happened. The pale eyelids shoot back revealing milk colored eyes. I gasped and looked around me waiting for the grownups to do the same, but they didn’t. Instead they all stood still listening quietly. I looked back down at the body and noticed the milk colored eyes still wide open.

The wind started to pick up at that moment, and when I looked up the sun had been blocked, but it wasn’t from a passing cloud or at least not a white cloud. A big cluster of black passed over the sun spreading shadows over the burial, and as the black grew closer I could pick out a few black eyes and feathers fluttering forward. I felt like screaming when a line of crows flew into the crowd of people shooting towards the casket. In the center you could faintly make out a furry shape with gray fur and black soulless eyes.

I searched the faces above me, but nobody seemed to notice the flock of black birds, or how they pushed past everyone, and towards the coffin. All at once the black birds dove into the casket and with a final shriek from the crows they were all in the big black box. I stood still and silent as I watched waiting for the next move, but the only thing I noticed was a single black feather resting upon Grandma Mays’s chest.

“It’s over,” my grandmother said whispering in my ear.

“Huh?” I asked still staring at the coffin in shock.

“Let’s go eat,” she said slowly pulling me towards the cemetery house. “Jim, are you coming?”

“I’ll stay here for awhile,” a man said. I knew him he was my Uncle Jim. He was funny, kind, and all in all a good uncle. I remembered hearing my grandmother say that Grandma May was his mother.

We walked back to the cemetery house with the rest of the people, and then we all sat at a table and ate. There was chatter and conversation, but I couldn’t concentrate much less take a bite of the food in front of me. I wondered about what had happened outside, but no matter how hard I pushed my brain the answer didn’t come.

“Come sit down,” someone said as Uncle Jim came in.

“There’s a wolf hanging around May’s grave,” he said sitting down. “I’ll bet you anything that it’s May, and those crows too.”

I perked up at the information he was sharing. A wolf and crows maybe he had seen it too. I suddenly remembered what my grandmother had said about the story I had shared with her,“It’s just a fairytale; a made up story.” I turned in my chair and looked out the window. From my seat I could see Grandma May’s grave, and sitting beside it was a wolf. Its’ fur was gray and waving in the wind made by the flapping of crow wings. Like a diamond sparkling in the sun the wolves eyes glittered a shiny brown the color Grandma May’s had been before she had died.

“It’s just a fairytale; a made up story.” The words rang in my head like a church bell, and as they did I was reminded of another thing my grandmother had told me, “Every fairytale is based on some truth.”