Second Son

That is all the gravestone reads. Father Trapani bows his head, gazes at the monument. While he is not sure this is the same woman who gave birth to his child years ago, the dates suggest the possibility exists. He regularly reads the Obituaries section of the local newspaper, picking out those whom he might have known in the past in order to pay proper respects. While he is well past being current, six months of papers are accumulated, he tries his best to visit local grave sites as time permits. He wonders how she might have died, relatively young in age, and where the child might be. He feels a sudden stiffness in his neck as he continues to look at the headstone. He leans over to pick away a few weeds that have accumulated over the past weeks. Then he touches the stone markings. His eyes get moist.

He remembers their brief life together, laughing, dancing, and drinking. He now blames himself for all of it. He bites his upper lip, realizing he should have brought flowers. He promises himself to make a regular visit to this specific location. He sniffles a little, and then hears a voice behind him.

"Hello." An elderly man stands behind him, friendly looking, dressed in outdoor work clothes, gloves and a hat.

"Hello," Father Trapani replies. His voice is weak. "Am I in your way?"

"No, not at all." The man smiles congenially, his teeth almost perfect looking. He must have a very good dentist. His dark brown eyes and wrinkled forehead give the man a peaceful look, someone you would confess your most inner secrets to. "Someone you know?"

Father Trapani feels his lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Then, he hears himself say, "Yes."

"So short of a life. I hope she lived it to the fullest," the elderly man says as he glances towards the gravestone.

"I hope so as well."

"I'm Jake Simons. Do my best to keep the place looking nice. Only me, so I can't get to them all on a regular basis. I'd like to, though."

"You're doing fine. Thanks for all your work."

"I remember when she arrived."

Father Trapani frowns, not sure he's heard correctly.

"There wasn't anybody who came. Somebody had to pay for it all, but no one came. I thought that was strange. Such a young woman and no one came to say their good-byes." He glances between the grave and Father Trapani.

"I ... I didn't know she had passed on. I would have come." The apologetic sounding voice is understood by Jake.

"Yes, yes. Of course. But ...." he lets the words fly away.

A comfortable silence passes by.

Then the elderly man continues, "It's strange ... all the arguments that people go through in their lives ... all the things they think are so important but really aren't ... all the rich people and the poor people ... it all comes down to this ... they are all going to get here."

Suddenly, sadness takes center stage. The air is still.

Father Trapani kneels at the foot of the grave; his hand makes the Sign of the Cross. "Bless me father for I have sinned. Please forgive all sins Abigail might have committed in her life, and reprimand me instead." He sniffles, and then he softy says, "All my love." He stays put for a short time, and then stands, a little wobbly at first. He looks around and finds himself to be alone.

During the time of silence he is aware of his own breath forming small clouds near his mouth. He now senses the chill in the air. His breathing, in and out, is rough and somewhat rapid as when a hungry animal scouts its prey for the day. He does not remember the last time he listened to his own breathing. Why would he? He never felt it to be labored before, unlike now, difficult in a way to find the air that appears escapable. He does not particularly like the feeling, the struggle, the pain. Is he looking for something that is not close by, or is it so close he cannot see it?

All of a sudden there is a buzzing sound in his ears. Is it music playing or something else? There are no words, just the melody.

He notices his knees are damp, most likely from kneeling on the damp ground. Unevenly, he puts one foot ahead of the other, walking around the burial place, thinking it might relieve him of his anguish when seen from another angle. Circling a few times only shows off his footprints on the ground. Nothing more.

He looks at his hands, wondering why he chose to take that action. They seemed wrinkled beyond his age. His knees get a little wobbly now, wondering if he can support himself, and what he should do next. A strange odor passes by, causing him to cough. He wraps his arms around his chest.

He looks up towards the heavens that are just beyond the clouds, waiting for the fog to leave that seems to have found a place in his brain, to tell him what to do.

Exhaustion almost overwhelms him. He drops to his knees and cries. Time passes and when he awakens it is dark. He is lying on the ground, in front of the grave of Abigail Weaver. Fresh flowers rest next to the monument.

He thinks this is the time for him to die.