No one really knows where they’re going in a cemetery, and if they do, they’ve been there too often.
Finding Marion Storti
by Jake Troxell
Small children don’t step out of cars like adults do. They’re limited by their size to either leap, squirm, or fall once their door has opened. Jake jumped from his father’s car once it came to a stop. He landed in the perfectly maintained grass of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery and rushed forward among the plots and rows that formed the vast city of cataloged expiration.
From the car, his parent’s watched him streak from gravestone to gravestone like any three-year-old would do after a morning pent-up in the car. They debated amongst themselves about which row her grave was in and whether they’d parked under this same tree last time or if they were even on the right side of the sprawling cemetery.
“Don’t get lost,” the mom called as the boy raced deeper and deeper into the city of marble and granite. They were the ones who were lost, not him. When he jumped from the car, he had not chosen to run. Something had purposefully guided each step he made across the parade routes of so many pallbearers and mourners. Something had purposely propelled him through this place he had never been before.
It took several minutes before his parents gave up on searching for her grave and decided it’d be best to ask someone in the main office by the gate. They called for the boy to return to the car, but he ignored their requests. Instead, he stared at a patch of grass that had taken four years to grow in properly.
“Jake, come on,” his parents both called as they made their way through the headstones towards him.
The boy didn’t acknowledge his parents as they joined him around his great-grandmother’s gravestone. He simply stated, “I used to be down there.”