Graveside

“How much further you got to go?” It was meant to be a joke. Something told me he wasn't going to say, "to China." He looked at me, his black eyes on the same level as mine. With a shrug he dismissed my question. The crowbar thumped into the earth with the hollow sound of a summer melon. He stood knee deep in the neatly shaped rectangle.

For the past hour I listened to his rhythmical thuds followed by a short series of metal biting into dirt. Now the shovel speared the grass. His wet t-shirt clung to his torso like a burial cloth. The interruption gave him the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. He readjusted his ball cap. “If I was working over in Franklin, I’d be done by now. This is nothing but fill. I even find bits of old cans and glass.” He stepped out of his hole. A harvest fly’s complaint scattered the still air.

The ground behind the church pitched the headstones in short waves and trailed off down a slope. There he had dumped wheel barrels of dirt and returned with small rocks.

“I guess you have to dig that by hand.” It was a statement as much as a question. He wasn’t a grave digger, but instead a headstone placer. Something about the hole fascinated me. I figured there must be a special machine to dig these holes. A bobcat maybe? Like steak I never think about the process beyond the butcher saran wrapping the Styrofoam. Head stones don’t grow at gravesides, but I never saw anyone put one in before.

“You got a business card?”

“Nope. If you need me, contact the church.” He didn’t offer his name.

“My cousin needs a headstone. I pointed to a marker just a few feet behind me.”

“Ramirez?"

“Perez.”

“When did he die?”

“Last October.”

“No offense, but you should wait a year. The ground needs to settle. It’s better to wait, although the guys here do a good job packing.”

He noticed my license plate. “You from Tennessee?”

“No, Hawaii. I was cleaning the moss and lichen from my grandparents’ headstone.”

“You got to be careful. Some stones are limestone and bleach could eat away at it.”

“I used a paint scraper and a brush. A dry cleaning. It’s still stained, but at least you can read the dates.”

“Some get worse than others.”

“The west sides are worse than the east. That seems strange.”

He wandered down a couple rows and agreed with my observation. Then he picked up his crowbar and returned to his hole.