Jermaine.

(My first FreeWriting post)

Three Nouns: Peace Wheelbarrow Cemetery

Timer set: 20 minutes

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Jermaine's eyes creaked open. Sunset. He could feel the deep wrinkles on his weather-worn face creek and crack. He was used to it. A warming gaze from the sun, as it settled behind a horizon of tall cedar trees, caressed his cheeks and gave a gentle auburn hue to his usually black trousers and shirt. Standard grave digger attire. Patched, soiled and stiff with dry mud.

The wrinkles, the scars, the muddied fingers, the calluses. Jermaine's body was much like a gravestone, carved with stories about his life. And though he went to great lengths to conceal such a fact, carved on his body were also stories about his death.

--

Jermaine rose from his usual seat on a small bench placed adjacent to the Lammens Cemetery's church. From his perch, he would sometimes overhear the hymns and readings from the church behind him. While he knew that God was never coming for him, he nonetheless felt hope. He could sense the joy and compassion radiating from the holy walls, which never failed to turn his pale, thin lips into a smile.

He patted the bench's faded gold plaque as he stood -- "For our dearest Mr Rose, whose services to Lammens we could never be more thankful" -- and walked towards his trusted wheelbarrow and shovel, nestled under the shade of one of the stone walls marking the church's courtyard perimeter. One or two mourners, observing some gravestones, turned their heads at the sounds of steel clattering against stone but Jermaine was gone before they could see what made the noise.

As the sunsets, Jermaine's life -- now and forever -- was to meet those who had been laid to rest at Lammens Cemetery. Through his wirey smile, they could feel his aged, genteel presence: welcoming, understanding and kind. They could still feel the warmth of the sun against his black shirt and trousers.

And they knew they'd be okay.

--

By Douglas Adams (I know, it's a blessing and a curse)