The hum of rushing tires gathers beyond the bend in the county road. A car comes round and speeds past driving east. The air rips and then trails into silence again. The woods are quiet now. Pine trees hem in the cemetery to the south and west. Overhead is a dusty cotton. Rain is in the forecast, but it has held off. A little chapel—painted white years ago, now chipped, and aging into the character of forest scatter, fallen leaves and limbs—sits quietly beyond the chained-link fence.
The man wears faded blue jeans. His neck is browned like a red oak leaf in October. The hair that shows beneath his cap is nearly all white. He steps up into the seat of his tractor. The engine fires. The tractor putters loudly. The man backs the tractor near where the grave is to be dug.
He stands, turns to the rear, flips down a seat, and sits at the backhoe. It is an excavating machine with a bucket attached to a hydraulic arm called a boom. He places his hands on the control sticks. The boom reaches out. The bucket sinks into the ground and pulls back, grass ripping. It scoops under, lifts, and swings to one side. The boom uncurls like a long finger and dumps red dirt tumbling to the ground.
The man works the backhoe controls confidently and skillfully, as if the knowledge of his work—of length and breadth and depth; of how hard to push; of when to cut, to scrape, to pound, to ease up and lift; of human sorrow and dignity—is engraved in the palms of his hands. There was a time when he had to think about what he was doing. It has become easier now, after over 40 years of work, as accustomed to his labor as he has become, for his mind to get lost in thought.
His mind goes out now beyond the cemetery to the little chapel by the woods. He thinks about all the people who have come and gone there, poor folks, surely. He thinks about all the sermons preached, the reading of The Book, the singing of hymns, the breaking of bread, and the pouring of wine. He wonders how they were baptized, these people who found Jesus there. Did the pastor place his hand dripping upon their heads—in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit—within the chapel, or were they led to the muddy banks of the Angelina River? It’s a short drive from here. Were their old selves killed beneath the shadow of the pines upon the waters? Did they rise alive out of the river with a shout of laughter?
It will rain soon. That is clear now. Beyond the tree line, the sky slants low in gray brushstrokes. An old urge like anxiety rises within the man and tells him to rush. He resists and takes his time. He continues at the backhoe control, and nearing the finishing depth, the bucket grates against sorry iron ore rock. Rising, half-standing, the man leans forward. He grits his teeth. He bites his lower lip and presses the backhoe controls harder. The bucket scrapes against dirt and rock, digging the grave deeper still. Then by some measure of eye, instinct, or patience, the man stops. He kills the engine and steps down from the tractor.
Taking a rake and a spade, what he calls a sharp-shooter, the man lowers himself into the grave. He thrusts his tool into the earth, lifts the handle, and thrusts it back down again. In doing this, over and over, the sharp-shooter chops the ruts the bucket’s teeth have left. The man sets it down and picks up his rake. He pushes and pulls the wooden handle, back and forth, smoothing the grave floor. Then he tosses his tools out of the grave, reaches up, and grabs the top edge. He bends his knees and jumps, hoisting himself out. The man rises, an ache shooting from his lower back, up through his spine, tingling into the length of arms. He ignores the pain and sweeps his hand over his pant legs. Dust puffs lightly in the air.
The man stands there and looks. His eyes are deep brown, enkindled. Furrows and seams line his face. It is there all the work, all the tears, all the laughter carve their remembrance. For a moment, he comes into the knowledge of his work. He too will die and return to dust.
The rain is closer now, somewhere over the nearby pastures. The scent of wet hay, pine, and cedar comes in on a soft breeze. He needs to get moving. The man drives the tractor and parks it out of sight. He returns to the grave, frames it with boards, sets the casket lowering device, lays artificial grass, puts up the graveside tent, and sets rows of folding chairs. The man packs up his tools and loads them onto his tractor trailer. He walks out the cemetery, headed toward the chapel.
From behind, he can hear rain begin to rustle through the pines. There is something soothing about it, almost like a lullaby. The man moves slow enough to listen. Rain drops begin to fall upon his shoulders. He steps to the chapel door, finds it unlocked, and walks inside.
The light is dim, the pews empty. The pine floor creaks beneath his feet. Rain begins to fall softly upon the roof. He sits down and rests awhile.
Listening there to the rain and the wind and the thin silence, the man remembers what he has forgotten. He remembers the end of the great dream we have rushed after without knowing where we are going. He remembers what we have lost in leaving where we have come from. He remembers every dear one sown in tears. He remembers our lives are offered: blessed and broken, given and gathered up.
The rain continues to fall, and the man imagines he can almost hear some memory of music buried within the old yellow pine with which the chapel was built. It is as if for his whole life, he has been waiting to hear that song that goes out through all the earth, the words to the end of the world, and beyond all time. What will it be like where graves are when that Voice calls? |