CW: Reference to miscarriage
Through the fields behind our backyard, we started drifting after our fifth failure. My fifth failure, my brain still tells me. I left out the backdoor and kept walking until, hours later, you discovered me on the cemetery hill off Lutheran Church Road. I couldn’t look away from the small humans on the diamond in the distance, and you agreed that you couldn’t either.
This Saturday gifts a breeze of fresh mowing and honeysuckle, so we lounge on the grassy slope and watch the tee-ball game from the outfield’s edge. Leaning against headstones toasty from the afternoon sun, we enjoy the pinballing of little players from corner to corner turn into a spectacle: a pigtailed player beelines to third base after a successful hit.
“Remember being so young and certain?” Most days I can only offer empty words instead of saying what we both want to say, but don’t. A coach spins the child around, nudging her toward first base, and a tiny chuckle escapes your lips. Your jaw unclenches. Finally.
“I’m going to make some rubbings,” scooping up my satchel with butcher paper and charcoal, I amble toward the oldest section of the graveyard where lichen obscures family names and departure dates.
The grounds feel like an oversized sweater, comfortable and contained. I linger at a headstone about to kiss the earth. There’s security in knowing that it too will turn to dust.
“Babe, check this one out,” but you stopped looking back, feigning interest in my hobby, months ago. I catch your arm sweeping in wide arcs and make a mental note to bring bug spray next time.
Today, I carry extra supplies. I’ll probably stay long after the game ends and the players are put to bed. Until my fingertips numb, until my hands turn to soot.
“Tina’s expecting,” I told you after returning from brunch with my oldest friend. She asked me to be her godmother. I hung the keys on the kitchen hook as you flipped an egg on the stove, and I know you’re perfect because you didn’t ask me to reenact how my congratulations tinkled out like an off-key piano. Or how Tina clutched my elbow, apologized, though she shouldn’t have to. You finished your eggs. We turned toward the field.
Clover tickles my knees as I kneel in front of a pockmarked stele. We had names ready the first time. The second, we reshuffled the guest room and told the family. After that, we stopped talking about it, even to each other, as if admitting joy was a jinx. These days I wonder why we’ve wanted to create what will become another rectangular eternity.
I press the paper against the grainy surface, relishing the liquid feel of the charcoal as I make diagonal passes across indentations and letters. The limestone, too damaged to read otherwise, reanimates on the page. Joseph P. Vaughn, 1887-1926. Beloved Father and Husband. A shadow falls, and I flinch as if Joseph himself hovers.
“Just me,” you say, hugging around my shoulders. I hold up the rubbing, hoping you’ll admire it as much as I imagine the ghost would have. You smile and say, “Come on.”
Our routine has never moved beyond voyeurism from our cemetery perch, so this is new. You pull me along the right-field foul line, bleachers packed with cheering parents ahead.
“There’s a mom here I want you to meet. She and her wife just adopted,” you say, though all I’m able to process is that you’ve been coming here without me.
Glancing back, the headstones beckon with the sunset, but your hand settles on my low back and guides me toward a redhead in a visor. She shouts, hands cupping her mouth, “Come on, Lana!” The child with pigtails zips now diagonally from first to third. The mom beams as we approach and pats the empty seats beside her.
You lace your fingers through mine and, together, we step forward.
Lauren Kardos (she/her) writes from Washington, DC, but she’s still breaking up with her hometown in Western Pennsylvania. You can find her on Twitter @lkardos.