“Get down. You’re being disrespectful.” This was said to the lanky man perched atop the gravestone. He cocked his head to the side, poised like a curious bird.
“Disrespectful to whom? I don’t think…” he peered between his toes, lips moving slightly as he read, “Joseph Tawson, loving husband and father, is in much of a position to care.”
The lanky man’s companion, a large man with a strong brow, strong chin, and a generally brutish build pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I was not referring to Mr. Tawson. These are for the living.”
The smaller of the two men craned his head around to look at the neighboring marker. “Well, it seems like Mrs. Tawson is sharing the same real estate, so no harm there, eh?”
“Humor me, Zagan.” Zagan lithely hopped to the ground and easily matched step with the other. The two walked and everything was quiet save for the wind in the trees. Zagan noisily retrieved a wax paper bag from a worn pocket.
“Right, you’re so smart, Ronove, tell me this: Why do these people do this anyway?” He made an inclusive gesture with a pretzel retrieved from the bag.
“The memorials help the living to cope, it would seem…”
Zagan cut him off in a spray of crumbs, “No, that makes sense. I mean putting the bodies in the ground.”
“It’s all part of the process.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t work. I mean, look at what else they put in the ground: seeds and things they don’t want to be seen or found. The latter is excluded because it would defeat the whole purpose of a memorial, and the former doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what do they think could possibly grow from a corpse?”
Ronove thrust his hands into his pockets as if he were throttling an assailant. “Read some of the literature for once. It’s all in there. Dust to dust, and that sort of thing. It’s cyclical. Plus it’s part of the process for some of them depending on the faith. Besides, no one appreciates your literal mindedness. Planting the bodies like seeds? No one thinks like that, you’re being inane.”
“Inane? Please, try inquisitive,” Zagan shook his head, “Pretzel? No? Bah. No one makes pretzels like the guy on Brook Street. That’s the whole reason we came out here.”
“Maybe you. We should get back.” The two stood in tableau: ogre-like Ronove making a peculiar gesture with one massive hand and slender Zagan messily whistling out of key amidst a growing pile of crumbs. They stood for awhile and, much like time, they eventually went.
It came to pass three weeks later that a tree was found growing from the grave of one Joseph Tawson. Its smooth bark was a pale peach color and its leaves a vibrant crimson. It bore a curious fruit of a half dozen shiny pink babies, each hanging from their belly buttons by a slender stem. No one found the incident to be very humorous except for Zagan who, though severely disciplined by his superior, felt the whole thing was worth it in the end.
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