Wake For Young Souls

The world, deep and grey, cascaded from the heavens, bombarding the rich black soil mercilessly, pooling in waterlogged crevasses and drowning the petite green blades that had but recently forced their way into the sunlight. Every stinging cold droplet cut through the carelessly worn layers surrounding him, and he would have shivered violently, had he not already been numbed to all sensation. Deadened.1

He allowed his knees hit the saturated earth, not noticing the dampness penetrating him to the last or the sludge that stained his clothing. Nothing reached him, not the rain or the chills running through him or the faint calling of his name in the distance. Nothing but the date before him, etched in stone to torment him forever, and the black black earth underneath him. 2

Two weeks. Two weeks trapped in this internal and endless suffering.3

It was different now, than at first. Then, it had been a constant stream of emotion, faster and stronger than the rain now beat down on him. Now, it was what he didn’t feel more than what he did. Tears didn’t wrench him apart inside. Words didn’t pass his lips in an effort to express it all. Life couldn’t penetrate him. For all the vibrancy that had once driven him, for all the sentiment that should have overwhelmed him, his mind and heart held nothing but a deep, lifeless chasm. The grief that clutched him with its stony hands mercilessly paralyzed him but for a few choking shudders of emotion. It seemed the whole sky felt the tears he could not produce.4

Two weeks. Two weeks she was gone.5

He clasped a fistful of soil, lifting it to himself as if a part of her would come with it, as if she remained in the earth below him, as if she had not left him for some place far beyond the grasp of his clenched hands. Empty thoughts passed through him that he should say a prayer for her, superficial and automatic. It wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing could.6

Nothing.7

Gone. Two weeks she’d been gone.8

“Nick.”9

He didn’t start with surprise at the voice suddenly behind him, didn’t move, hardly blinked. His eyes, focused solely on the heavy granite before him, could not bear themselves to be removed. His attention was barely diverted. He didn’t respond.10

The figure beside him crouched down to lay a fresh bouquet of glistening wet daises in the dirt, weakness not overtaking her as it had him, though the dark and delicate hand shook for reasons beyond the cold, hesitating over the fresh grave. She paused, lost in her own reflections before returning her thoughts to him again. “You’re going to get hypothermia out here.”11

His eyes, his soul, remained blank, frozen without the rain. “I don’t care,” was his whispered reply, echoing in his mind above the pattering of the rain on stone. Cold dead stone. The world beat out the rhythm for it over the fresh grave. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.12

“She would.” The voice was lined with care and compassion, but it could evoke not even the slightest emotion from him. Nothing could but holding her in his arms again, and seeing the playful glimmer in his eyes, instead of the cold dead stone. Cold, pale, dead stone.13

Flatly speaking louder, “She’s gone,” as if he needed to announce it to himself more than his companion.14

There was a pause of many minutes, and though no footsteps indicated her departure, he thought maybe she had left him alone to grieve. The sudden press of a hand on his shoulder proved otherwise, the warmth of it slicing through him deeper than all the rain in the world. His eyes lifted themselves to her, and had she not been as despondent as he was, she might have smiled at the recognition. No words were passed, no meaningless assurances or condolences. There were no pitying frowns or forced sympathies. No more than a fleeting moment passed, yet somehow one glance signified more than a thousand words that had flown in and out of his ears. Not needing to do any more, Amrita stayed beside him, sharing thoughts and heartaches with him in silence, as the world passed from darkness to bittersweet light and colour.15

And that made all the difference.16