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much the same as her mother, except her eyes, which were a clear blue.
“Daddy, we made you some food to keep you warm,” the girl said, handing
over a small container. The gravedigger smiled.
“Thank you, sweetheart, now go inside and warm up.” He motioned towards
the church. His daughter smiled, gave a quick nod, and bounced towards the
church. He looked at his wife.
“Really, thank you.”
“It was her idea, I would’ve left you in the cold. I know how you love the out-
doors.” She smiled. He nodded towards his daughter making her way towards
the church at her own pace.
“Sorry, I think she loves it too.” He said, and nodded towards the church.
“You should get inside too, warm up before you head back.”
After a quick kiss on the cheek, she did just that. He watched them go into
the church then resumed his work. God can be cruel, he thought. But He can
also be kind.
to work the fields, the young man spent much of his time with his mother. He
would help with supper, with washing and cleaning but he would always find a
way to escape outside. The young man would search for his father with the im-
patience of youth, ready to be like his brothers. His father would act surprised
and praise the boy’s initiative, giving him a small task as a reward. But the
minute the boy would look away, his father would grab his son and carry him
back to the house, laughing the whole way. Most days were like that, filled with
the simple joy of life. Then the war came.
The young boy was twelve, the child in him fading more and more each
passing season. Soon he would be fully grown, but not soon enough. His father
and brothers enlisted, leaving him and his mother to care for the farm. They
worked hard for a couple of years, living a quiet life if not a luxurious one. They
enjoyed each other’s company, as only a mother and son could. The sickness
came when autumn was fading. His mother grew weak quickly, unable to do
the smallest chore. They had to hire an old farmhand. He wasn’t the smartest
man and his age was catching up to him, but he worked hard.
The young man knew his mother’s time was almost over. Where there was a
laugh, was now a rasping breath. Where there was a smile, was now a painful
grimace. The young man could do nothing. There was no medicine, no cure
for this curse. She passed quietly in the night. Her son started the rough task
of digging the frozen dirt. He was joined soon after by the only other soul he
knew, the old farmhand, the man too old not to understand grief.
They buried her after a full day of digging. The young man marked the grave
with a makeshift cross he made by tying together two pieces of wood. He knelt
next to the cross, his tears falling on the fresh dirt. The farmhand put a hand
on his shoulder. “God can be cruel,” he said. The only words of comfort the boy
would receive.
The young man’s father and brothers never returned. Whether they died,
were captured, or just left, the boy did not know. All he knew was that every-
where he looked, he saw his mother. Chopping vegetables. Hanging his wet
clothes, muddy from the creek. Smiling at something his father said. Laughing
at a stupid thing he and his brothers had done. And then she was not there. He
knew he could not stay, not on that farm, where the pain was fresh each morn-
ing. His pain made a cage of his home. He left.
The gravedigger stopped, nowhere near finishing his task. Maybe it was
the cold that had stopped him, or the heaviness of loss framed inside those
tiny coffins. The gravedigger tossed aside his shovel, careful not to hit a single
headstone. He stomped towards the church. Less than halfway across the
graveyard, he stopped, letting out a long sigh. The gravedigger turned to walk
back when he saw a young woman approaching, a child walking with her. The
woman was almost covered from head to toe, only a sliver of her face was bare.
Her hazel eyes almost invisible as she squinted against the wind. Her small,
delicate nose and rounded cheeks unusually pink. A small, black curl peeked
from under her hat. She smiled as she pushed her daughter forward. She was
Brandon Stewart, Possessed Things – Illustration