Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Flash Fiction
Sunny and Full of Haze
-in memory of J.P. and J.P.
The day was sunny and full of haze, like something new, but very heavy, heavily blue. All submitted to the protocol of the rabbi. Only he was normal that day. For him, that day was a work day
A father and a son. A son, profoundly estranged. A father more estranged than he knew. The father overwrought, ends with a pecuniary gesture. The son, moved darkly deeper, returned the gesture, the pecuniary paper placed carefully upon the heart of his sleeping father. And the son moved heavily, became mournful of life, became moved darker and darker
The elegy took place inside a large spacious building. Beautiful colored windows surrounding. The rabbi said that 'beauty in the eye separates that eye from the animals on Earth. It is beauty? the pleasure of beauty what life is about, and spiritual beauty is the deepest and the longest lasting pleasure'
Remembrances and sentiments were given. The coffins were rolled out into the hearse. A long limousine procession began. It creeped crookedly through the back streets of the city, proceeding upon paths of least resistance, least imposing, silently, for many miles north of the city, past a grand graveyard park with stately marbleheads and manicured lawns where gentiles are buried. I am a gentile...true, and a Jew, well hidden. I am a guest, here and now, to witness this solemn occasion
Onward we moved, on past to where I was wondering where we were to turn. The limousines suddenly turned. I still could not see the cemetery. We proceeded down a secluded off'beat street. To the left was a high rusted wire fence. Old broken down buildings were being dismantled by overgrown brush. The long black limousines turned onto a dirt road, which lead through some tree'shadowed thickets and brambles into a small court. A small hut of a chapel stood in the middle of an orchard, cleared as necessary, to receive narrowly packed caskets. The pole bearers were quickly summoned. I saw the bottom of the caskets. Not a silk'lined copper tomb for the ground, but something of old wood constructed like a shipping crate fashioned for a long rugged journey. The boxes were quickly lowered into the ground. The pole bearers and the Rabbi shoveled dirt over the boxes. They worked fast and passed the spade. And when the boxes were completely covered, flowers were laid while the Rabbi sung prayers. The ceremony was diligently carried out. There was no tarrying about. It was quickly over, and everyone left this orchard dedicated. The remains were neatly packed along side a history of others. In due time, the headstones will be placed on strips of concrete laid long. Mourners stood upon other graves freshly made. No one knew them. Headstones have not yet been made for them. Only broken strips of sod marked their remains
The black limousines departed bearing its heavy occupants. I looked back. I saw broken, old falling down buildings and cleared stretches of orchard grass. I saw disappearing, rusted wire fences, a modest chapel and parking lot. Clearly, these people do not spend much time nor resources on the remains of those, no longer here and now. Their passion is elsewhere, and as it were before, even here, where everyone mourns, there is only the truth of each that mourns, and they do not want to dally, nor remember now. And I did not want to tarry. I too, for the moment, had no more need to look back. The ground is green, cold, and sacrosanct. We will remember, however..each in our own time