Grave Poets

Loneliness is an acquired taste and after having this taste force-fed to me for a few years, it is safe to say that I have acquired it. I no longer think about loneliness as a negative thing, however. I suppose that would mean that I am not lonely at all; I’m merely a loner. For a long time I found my position in the world more advantageous than anything else I could be. Sure, I had friends, but their company was sporadic at best. I don’t know how they handle things when I’m not around, but I was never one to cry when information of an upcoming party didn’t reach me.

About a year ago, a great impact changed my views regarding isolation. It was certainly unexpected, and my stance on the subject is presently a bit hazy. There are now times when I believe that continuing this life so alone is unbearable. Occasional suicidal thoughts flood my mind in hope of finding the nearest exit. Such ideas are discarded easily enough when I realize I don’t have whatever the hell it takes to inflict immense pain upon myself. I eventually begin to feel much better once old problems start to be replaced by new ones. I leave the past behind to concentrate more on the present.

The impact upon my views began on a summer night in a cemetery on Salem Street. Salem was the largest street in the small Massachusetts town I lived in. It was also a town not too far away from my hometown; however, that’s irrelevant to the story I’m trying to tell, so I’ll try to refrain from more pointless state geography.

The cemetery I sat in that evening had its dilapidated parts, but that was not the section I was interested in. I remained in the nice part of the home for the dead, where the gravestones were shiny and pristine, not dull and decrepit. There my mother lay. I visited my mother every weekend while school was in, and during the summer, my visits increased to nearly every day.

I appreciated the cemetery primarily for its serenity and complete lack of people. I hated people. Hell, I still do, just not as much. My approval has risen a slight degree; just great enough for there to be a noticeable air of respect for strangers.

My favorite part of these visits was my poetry reading. Most nights I spent at the cemetery I used as an excellent opportunity to write and recite poetry. In order to write good poetry, I felt I needed tranquility, a peace found in a cemetery late at night. During one of these poetry readings, I was disturbed. This was the event causing the great impacted I all ready informed the reader of happening.

I was entranced in my poetry on the night of July seventh. I was trying very hard to come up with the perfect word to end my next line when she appeared out of nowhere.

“The ebony shine doesn’t soothe my soul
Not like it did years ago
This stone, once sought out for comfort
No longer offers refuge from grinding agony
Traveling through thick foliage
I search for the benevolent dell
I reach the end to realize…”

She now made her extraordinary first appearance, which didn’t impress me by any stretch of the most demented imagination. This was mostly due to how she decided to finish off my wonderful nearly completed piece of art.

“She’s waiting for you in hell.”

These words caught my attention like a bear trap catches that of a bear. There was a sudden clamp down on my mind that stung and I was incapable of helping myself.

“Hello,” the girl said with the most gorgeous smile; a beauty that had hitherto never been beheld in my eyes. I noticed her voice emanating a melodic splendor when she continued, “I’m Kyria.”

It is important to note the major misconception of small towns Hollywood imparts to the public. Everyone does not know everyone in a small town. A great deal of people have seen a good majority of the people who live in that town, but that does not mean the people know each other. I did not know Kyria, but I had seen her before. She went to my high school and she was in my class. I had never talked to her because I had never wanted to. I applied the wisdom “you can tell the quality of a person by the company he keeps.” In this case it was a she, but I applied it, nevertheless. She hung around the “popular” crowd. Most of those people were jerks and I didn’t care for any of them. But like I said before, I had never talked to Kyria before and so I didn’t know exactly what type of conclusion to arrive at.

“Hi. I’m…” My introduction apparently wasn’t needed.

“I know,” Kyria said. “You’re the writer, right?”

“Uhh… yeah.” I managed a half smile. I was branded “the writer” around school ever since I got a short story published in a local magazine. Many of my peers enjoyed the story, but the “popular” group mockingly branded me “the writer.” I sat down, leaning against the stone behind me and Kyria followed me down to the ground.

“I enjoyed your story,” the girl assured me once she saw my expression. “Really.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I never made fun of you for it. You can’t judge a person by the company she keeps, you know.”

“Yes you can,” I objected defensively.

“Maybe. But you rarely keep any company at all. What kind of conclusion am I supposed to draw from that?”

“To leave me alone.”

“Witty,” she observed. “But I think you want company.”

She was right. I did want company, just not hers.

“Well? Why are you loitering around the cemetery?” I inquired, less than enthusiastic for the answer.

“I enjoy the serenity. And you?”

It was a good answer followed up by a horrible question. My slanted eyebrows caused her gaze to wander past me and see the name inscribed upon the gravestone. Her smile was swiftly replaced with a sympathetic frown. She knew my last name, obviously.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. Just don’t ask any more stupid questions,” I scolded.

“Look, I began this discourse in hope of joining your poetry party. I enjoy poetry too.”

I raised my left eyebrow. Did she just say discourse?

“I’m not as dumb as you think,” Kyria persisted. “The company I keep is partly to make me feel smarter than everyone else. I can outsmart anyone of those guys, and I feel good about it. But I know it’s no great accomplishment.”

“What do I look like? A psychiatrist?” I snapped.

“My social life at school is a lie. Most of my daytime activities aren’t for me. I do them to fit in. It’s all a façade, really.”

“I’ve never known, nor have I ever cared to know, what it was like to fit in. But I think we can agree that we both live a lie during the day, and out here, to keep the serenity serene, we should cease to discuss that lie.”

It was agreed. Neither of us were really ourselves around others, so we didn’t want to talk about it. You may wonder how it’s possible to pose as an unsocial smart-ass. The smart-ass part wasn’t really an affectation. I’m not really unsocial, though. I just don’t like to talk when there’s nothing interesting to discuss. And for the most part, no one at my high school discussed anything interesting. Most of its attendants didn’t even know interesting things actually happened in the world. For them, interesting is what happened when they overdosed and got laid by everyone of the opposite sex at the party the other night. Or in some cases, got laid by everyone at the party the other night.

“Were you at the Sampson party the other night?” Kyria inquired after a short period of silence. I was just beginning to enjoy myself, too.

“No.” It was short, sweet, and to the point.

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. I don’t know why she was so persistent to start a conversation. I eventually came to the conclusion that it was because she had never had an intelligent conversation in her life. “It was kind of fun,” she continued. “This one guy, Jason McKinley, he oh-deed and got laid by nearly every girl there.”

“Would that include you?” I asked with out the slightest interest in what the answer might be.

“No. Of course not.”

There was more silence. These brief periods of no talking were wonderful. I can’t express the joy of hearing her shut up every now and then. Hearing her voice now would seem like blissful music, but then I wanted her mindless babble to cease.

“I do a little poetry myself…every now and then. You know, just for fun.” She just wouldn’t give up, so I gave in.

“Yeah?” I raised my head a little. “Let’s hear some.”

She began promptly.

“I think about it every day
And wonder what it would be like
If I were myself more than them
I could throw my affectations away
For you I’d be more
Words cannot describe
The feelings that are hidden from you
You must find deep inside.”

To this day, I still think she was trying to tell me something.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked her. When I looked at her, it seemed as if her radiating smile lit up the whole cemetery. Hell, I think her beautiful beam fueled the entire town’s electricity.

“Actually…” she began, but never finished. I saw her start to blush so I didn’t persist the matter.

“Fair enough,” I said. I found myself wanting to talk to her now. Like I said, I was never antisocial, Kyria just managed to peak my interest. “How long have you been writing poetry?”

“I’ve been keeping a poetry notebook since the third grade.”

“Cool. I’ve wanted to be a writer since the same grade.” I stared up at the stars. “Do you believe in heaven, hell, and all the other shit that goes along with it?”

“I’m pretty liberal when it comes to religion,” she replied as if she were expecting such a question to be asked.

“I’m guessing you’re pretty liberal about many things in life.”

She laughed and agreed. “Yes, I’m liberal. What, you’re not?”

“No actually. I belong to a hardcore republican family, actually. I know it’s not something you hear often in Massachusetts, but… you know.”

“Nope.”

She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen, and I was just beginning to notice by this point. Kyria had long brunette hair. It was completely straight and ran down a couple inches past her shoulders. Poor lighting prevented me from making out the color of her eyes, but I thought about times I saw her as school and believed her eyes to be gorgeous green. She really did seem interesting. A moment of silence passed, it seemed more sickening that it did before. I didn’t like it. Kyria was the first to break that silence.

“Barbara Dolton liked to eat
For breakfast she ate a pound of meat
An hour before lunch each day
She went to a large buffet
When noon finally did roll around
Her stomach roared with a growling sound
So she’d proceed to a fast food place
In hope of cheaply stuffing her face
A little later she needed a snack
So she ate cheese an’ mac
For dinner, Mexican sounded good
The burrito she ate ended with a thud
Paramedics arrived for her body
The food made her heavy and others were sorry.”

“What was that?” I asked once she finished.

“It’s just a game I play. Kind of cruel, really.”

I didn’t understand and I let her know this. “A game. What kind of a game?”

“Never mind. I have to go now, but will you be here tomorrow night?”

I told her I would be at the same time as this evening. She said, “Great,” then took off. Before I left my mother’s side, I gazed around at some of the other graves. Then I let out a laugh. It wasn’t on purpose, but I had just figured out how Kyria’s game was played. Diagonally left, across from my mother’s grave was a stone that read:

Barbara Dolton
May 12, 1962-July 4, 1995
A dependable wife and loving mother

The next night she came walking down the paved road through the cemetery the same time she had the previous night. I had been there for nearly an hour already.

“What time do you get here?” Kyria asked as she sat down beside my mother and me.

“About eight,” I replied.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, and once again we were out of interesting things to say.

The silence grew more annoying so I asked, “How was your day?”

“Boring.” She brushed her hair back with her hand and continued, “We went to the mall. You know, me my usual group. Well, we shopped for clothes and talked about dumb things like which guy will the hottest boy will be next year, not taking newcomers into account. Then we went home. We didn’t get lunch at the mall because Erica Joplin was with us and we didn’t want to make her feel bad.”

“Feel bad?” I said. I should have known the point that was being made, especially since I had seen Erica before, but I didn’t catch on.

“She’s anorexic.”

More silence.

“Oh.” I applaud myself for being a great conversationalist.

“Yeah… Well, how about your day?”

“Oh, well, I stayed at home and read a little and wrote a little then read some more.”

“What are you reading?”

“Nineteen Eighty-four. Es bien,” I said, trying out my horrid Spanish skills.

“You’re really horrible at Spanish,” Kyria stated the obvious.

“Yeah well, I’m going to major in English, so I don’t worry about that very often.”

The ever-present silence grew now. Even when we were talking, the silence waited there patiently. It waited for the perfect moment to interrupt all that was pleasant and destroy the best conversation I had ever commenced with the opposite sex. I decided to fight back.

“She found it hard to fit in
With people much different than she
So drastic measures were taken
To become what she hated to be
She told herself it would be all right
If she continued on
And decided never to fight
So this girl decided to refuse to eat
And she lost several pounds every week
Her third month on fasting
She collapsed on the street
While all her friends continued on
And never looked back to weep.”

“Hm,” Kyria responded. And that was all she said. She stared ahead, expressionless yet clearly contemplative. There was anther long silence that I couldn’t break. It went on for several minutes before Kyria finally said, “You don’t think she’ll die, do you?”

My attention snapped back to her and I asked, “What?”

“Erica, I mean. You don’t think she’ll…”

“No,” I answered quickly. “No.”

“She might not be the greatest person in the world, but I don’t want her to die.” Her lip trembled.

“It was just a poem. No, I don’t think…”

Tears started to soak Kyria’s face and I didn’t notice until she put her face in her hands and I heard a faint sobbing. I had dealt with crying girls a few times before. I could be very comforting and I guess that’s why I occasionally had friends come to me when they were feeling down. Well, the girls anyway. Guys always bear it out. But even though I had done it before, I always found it hard to deal with crying females. I believe it is just my first instinct. I never really expect to see a person cry, mostly because I hadn’t done so myself for quite a few years. Nonetheless, I figured out what I needed to do and put my hand on her shoulder. She immediately embraced me with a hug. I hugged back, which felt awkward yet so typical at the same time. I hadn’t hugged anyone for some time, but when I held her in my arms I felt… genuinely happy. That’s all I can come up with for how I felt. I don’t know how else to describe the feeling. It just felt right to hold her.

“I don’t want my friends to die,” she sobbed.

“It was just a random poem. It didn’t mean anything,” I comforted.

It took a little bit to calm her down, but I managed it. I’ve never known why she was so frightened for her friend’s health. It’s one thing to be concerned, but she was fearful of something.

Once she was calm, silence almost had a chance to sneak in again, but it was fought back with new discourse initiated by Kyria. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I’m not used to crying. I don’t have the greatest day life.” She forced a smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m always here to lend a hand… or a shoulder.” I laughed. She did, too.

“Do you get it a lot? The crying thing?”

“A few girls have come to me with their problems,” I told the brunette, then frowned at the thought.

“Mister nice guy?”

“I don’t try to be. It’s a plague.”

“It’s a good thing. You might not be very social, but few people are genuinely nice. I think you’re one of those naturally nice people. Your personality, however, takes some getting used to.”

“Hey! I’m not anti-social. I just don’t like to talk when there’s nothing interesting to talk about. It’s like dialogue that doesn’t advance the plot in a story. I hate it!”

“Not all dialogue has to have any more purpose than to entertain.”

She had a point. I have actually had a number of pointless conversations, yet they were interesting. But then I have to consider the definition of a purposeful conversation.

“Point taken,” I swallowed my teenage pride. A piece of my ego went with that pride and ran through my digestive system. It felt good. Like being reborn.

“I better get going. It’s getting kind of late. I hope to see you here tomorrow at the same time.” She smiled as she got up. God, she was so beautiful. It was amazing how much my opinion of her had changed in the past twenty-four hours.

“Of course,” I guaranteed. “I’ll be here at eight. Come when you please. I’m out of here by ten.”

I watched her trudge down the road and I watched her as her hands were brought up to rub against her face. I believed she was crying again, but the darkness kept away certainty.

The next night Kyria arrived at eight. I hadn’t even sat down beside my mother’s grave when I saw her. She was garbed entirely in black, which made her somewhat hard to see.

“Hi,” she called into the darkness. She beat me to the greeting.

“Hey,” I replied. A melancholy ambience lingered in the air. I wasn’t sure why, but nothing felt right that night.

“I wanted to tell you to give people a chance,” Kyria said. To this day, that remains one of the most unexpected comments I have ever received. I was sure someone would say a similar comment to me at some point in the future, but I didn’t expect such a statement from Kyria. I certainly didn’t expect the comment to come at such an awkward moment. I always figured I’d at least be doing something rude when that comment was stated.

“You don’t think I give people a chance?” I asked, expecting the obvious answer. Instead, she raised her left eyebrow and after that no words were needed. I laughed at the trick she picked up from me.

“I had to tell you that before I left.” Another unexpected comment to come from the dark-haired beauty.

“Left?” I repeated unbelievingly.

“I’m…” She paused and I was unable to tell how sincere the conclusion to her statement was. “I’m moving away.”

“Where to?” I asked curiously. The shock still hadn’t worn off, but I did my best to carry on the conversation. The show must go on, eh?

“Canada. Toronto.”

“Oh.” That was all I had. I actually wanted to ask, “Why are you moving there? Can’t you stay? I haven’t had adequate time to decide what I truly think about you.” But none of that came out. Kyria got only my blank stare and deficient “oh.”

She quickly embraced me in a hug and I hugged back. I felt sorrow but I couldn’t finger why. Then we shared a kiss. Our lips locked for no more than three seconds before she let go. Let go forever. After that venerable moment (I think for both of us) she turned and left. I didn’t follow after her knowing she didn’t want me to.

I was on the verge of leaving as well before I saw a folded piece of paper on the ground beside my mother’s grave. I picked it up. On the front it read, “From Kyria, To the Writer .” I cleared my throat at discomfort of the name she used to address me. I knew it was joke, however. I promptly shoved the note into my pocket without reading it.

I stopped going to the cemetery for a while, after that. I didn’t return until the last week of summer vacation in late August. It was midday, which was an odd time for me to return. I sat down on my mother’s gravestone and pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from my pocket. I stared down at the words, “To the writer.” They no longer bothered me. I meticulously unfolded it. Before I let my eyes glance over the words, I took a look around the cemetery. There was a new stone diagonally left from my mothers.

“Hmm… A sad world.” I said to myself.

I lifted up my lazy body and dragged my feet over to the new memorial.

Kyria Satine
May 29, 1986-June 14, 2003
Wonderful Daughter
Beautiful Poet

I wiped the tears from my face before once again looking down at the note. It was a poem. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I set it down beside Kyria’s grave. Even though we never had a chance to become good friends or more than friends, I was very depressed that entire week. Eventually, my academic life once again swept me away from all worries, but I’ll always remember the girl who changed my entire perspective on life in two nights of conversation. Kyria was a symbol of how beautiful and magnificent God’s creations really are.