I come to the graveyard every week, same time, same coffin. I come to see her.
Her coffin is above ground, a grey sort of opaque, with nothing but her name and dates on it. There’s no markings to show what she meant to people, like on so many other graves around here. Just me, here, every single week.
She was my age, twenty-five. And she will stay my age until the day I die, quite probably.
Years pass, five of them. I continue to visit every week. A few other people express an interest in me, but I am always busy, and eventually they leave me alone. I finish my studies and my training and begin working as a doctor. I could not save her, but perhaps the ability to save others will help me to feel better.
The population of the graveyard does not change dramatically. It is very expensive to be interred here.
Ten years pass and very little changes. I help to design a new coffin, one that works faster, and is much smaller and far less bulky than the one she is interred in. If we’d had these fifteen years ago, perhaps –
No.
I am still alone.
Another fifteen years pass. My hair is grey now, only a little of the darkness left. Salt and pepper. My parents die, as do hers. I sometimes think about retirement, but there is always another life to save, someone else to help. Their voices keep me from hearing the lack of hers.
Sometimes, I forget her face. I can see it now, as the coffin becomes clearer, if I squint hard enough. My eyes are not what they used to be. I can see her hair, shorter than it used to be, but that will change. Her skin is taut and soft on her face, like mine used to be, before the ravages of time.
Between times, I forget what she looked like. Or I confuse what she looked like then with what she looks like now, her pale face and shorn hair inside the coffin.
She is a aunt now. Her sister has children . I try not to think of the life we would have had.
Twenty years pass. I am there on the day when the coffin opens.
My hair is white now, and thinner than it used to be. My back is hunched, and sometimes movement hurts me. I wear glasses constantly now, and I am always cold.
I look at the roof of the coffin as she is gently urged into wakefulness. The machinery and wires are obvious, far cruder than the ones I have helped to build since she was interred. If only I’d been more focused, perhaps it might not have taken so long to rebuild her after the accident.
She looks at me, after her long sleep of death. I wonder what dreams she has had.
Her eyes do not recognise me. She addresses me by the name on my name-tag, Dr Haldeman. She asks me what year it is.
“3083,” I tell her. Fifty years after she was first interred.
She tells me that she used to know a Haldeman. She still doesn’t recognise me.
I look down at the liver spots on my wrinkled, arthritic hands and start to cry.
Her coffin is above ground, a grey sort of opaque, with nothing but her name and dates on it. There’s no markings to show what she meant to people, like on so many other graves around here. Just me, here, every single week.
She was my age, twenty-five. And she will stay my age until the day I die, quite probably.
*
Years pass, five of them. I continue to visit every week. A few other people express an interest in me, but I am always busy, and eventually they leave me alone. I finish my studies and my training and begin working as a doctor. I could not save her, but perhaps the ability to save others will help me to feel better.
The population of the graveyard does not change dramatically. It is very expensive to be interred here.
*
Ten years pass and very little changes. I help to design a new coffin, one that works faster, and is much smaller and far less bulky than the one she is interred in. If we’d had these fifteen years ago, perhaps –
No.
I am still alone.
*
Another fifteen years pass. My hair is grey now, only a little of the darkness left. Salt and pepper. My parents die, as do hers. I sometimes think about retirement, but there is always another life to save, someone else to help. Their voices keep me from hearing the lack of hers.
Sometimes, I forget her face. I can see it now, as the coffin becomes clearer, if I squint hard enough. My eyes are not what they used to be. I can see her hair, shorter than it used to be, but that will change. Her skin is taut and soft on her face, like mine used to be, before the ravages of time.
Between times, I forget what she looked like. Or I confuse what she looked like then with what she looks like now, her pale face and shorn hair inside the coffin.
She is a aunt now. Her sister has children . I try not to think of the life we would have had.
*
Twenty years pass. I am there on the day when the coffin opens.
My hair is white now, and thinner than it used to be. My back is hunched, and sometimes movement hurts me. I wear glasses constantly now, and I am always cold.
I look at the roof of the coffin as she is gently urged into wakefulness. The machinery and wires are obvious, far cruder than the ones I have helped to build since she was interred. If only I’d been more focused, perhaps it might not have taken so long to rebuild her after the accident.
She looks at me, after her long sleep of death. I wonder what dreams she has had.
Her eyes do not recognise me. She addresses me by the name on my name-tag, Dr Haldeman. She asks me what year it is.
“3083,” I tell her. Fifty years after she was first interred.
She tells me that she used to know a Haldeman. She still doesn’t recognise me.
I look down at the liver spots on my wrinkled, arthritic hands and start to cry.
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