The Mourners by Jan Darrow

It was on the hillside above the orchard when the light was just right that he could see the mourners in their black hats and coats.  The despair only heightened when they pulled the coffin from the carriage and placed the lid – sealing the body forever.  And then in the blink of an eye they were gone, leaving only wild sweet peas and ivy shimmering under the sun.

He had bought the house and property months earlier from a second cousin who moved to Boston.  Apparently, it had been in his family for generations.  Now, in the peace and solitude he liked to walk around the grounds with his dogs planning gardens for next year.  He felt like a gentleman farmer.

 

But this business above the orchard bothered him and one day he climbed up the hillside searching for headstones.  He found nothing except several patches of black raspberries growing among the flowers and ivy.  Who was this person they were grieving? 

 

He telephoned his cousin that afternoon to ask about any family member that might be buried on the property, but his cousin knew of none.

And so, at first as time moved on, he decided to forget the hillside and began repairs on the house. 

 

Maybe it was the day light growing shorter, who knows, but the house began to take on the same despair he felt when he saw the mourners and he wondered if he could live out the rest of his life in such a lonesome place.

Yet he stayed.

He gradually forgot the house and became so drawn to the hillside that he often wept with the mourners.  And as each day passed, he saw their faces more clearly and recognized them as his own.  But surely not, as they were nothing more than ghosts.  Something that comes and goes in the blink of an eye - like dust.

Weeks went by until one morning in October, when the leaves had changed into brilliant colors, he woke from a terrible dream.  He knew that he had to leave

.  

As he packed his car, he looked up and saw them in the haze, tangled brush, horse stamping, and carriage rocking.  The mourners were watching him.

But he collapsed before he could start the engine.

It might have been minutes or hours later when he opened his eyes, their sour breath so close standing over him.  Dressed in black silk funeral attire.  Grieving time passing.

  

His arms were trapped now within the confines of a wooden box.  The mourners’ sad eyes covering him in darkness; sliding the heavy wooden lid - drowning out his screams.  

Jan Darrow is a poet from Michigan who connected with the natural world at an early age.  She has been published online and in print and finds abandoned places utterly beautiful.  You can see more of her work at jandarrow.blogspot.com