Darkness slowly engulfs the cemetery. It creeps between the graves, covers the brown leaves scattered on the ground. It lays over us with a heavy quilt, under which there is no air. The fabric wraps around our heads, clogs our noses. The air still smells like the last days of August suspended in time. Sweat drips down our bodies — we have worn jackets impulsively, out of habit. Men in black coats, women in jackets the color of night, stroll between the graves. We are guided by the lights of the candles that appeared on the stone slabs out of nowhere. They have grown on them like buds whose moment has come. Soon they will blossom into flowers of broken glass. They will overgrow the bottoms of cemetery garbage cans. The smell of bouquets, wreaths is in the air. The scents collide with each other. They melt into soft, hot wax. They flow over us like sweat, summer sweat, the sweat of a sultry day and a sultry night.
In the crowd, I see hands searching for matches, lighters, rummaging in pockets, folding in prayer, again and again over each body hidden underground. I see hands holding brooms and exposing leaf-covered slabs. I see hands squeezing other hands, children's hands; hands showing the way between the winding alleys of the old part of the cemetery. I see bodies mingling with the night. Their blackness is replaced by the fuzzy lights of candles. They pierce through clothes, through skin, melt bones — and after a while, people disappear in a blur of color. I squint my eyes. The colors pour out of their chalices. Time slows down. I close my eyelids completely. I wait for the familiar chill.
I stand over one of the newer graves. The black stone flickers with the light of the only candle. Someone has left it before me. I move it to make room for my own. The light falls on the only name engraved in gold in the black. — Where are you? — I ask quietly and look at my watch. I place a loaf of bread, an apple, a pair of gloves on the grave. — I brought you something. — No answer. The heat pouring from the dark sky like tar, in which we are all drowning, makes me take off my jacket. Then a sweater. I'm left in just an undershirt. I put my hand on the heated stone. I knock, in the faint hope that I will wake him up, that he will come before his night is over. — I don't know any formulas. I don't know what to say to you. You always appeared as I came on your day. On your day. — I look around the cemetery. Confirmation of my words does not come. I stand alone. The figures shifting like one monstrous body in the periphery of an increasingly failing eyesight do not notice me. I kick the stone. I rearrange the gifts. — Fuck, wake up. I need to talk to you. I've waited a year for this. — The stone is silent. He who lies beneath it sleeps his eternal sleep. — You will miss it, you will miss the only moment. I have so many questions for you. I even wrote them down. — I show the grave a piece of paper written in thick, cursive handwriting. — Say something.
A couple walks past me. A hunched man holds his shivering wife under his arm. They drag their feet, bent over, as if searching for something in the darkness, in a cemetery alley. At the same time, they move with lightness. Motionless faces float in the air, cut off from the world by their black outfits. A suit hangs on his emaciated body. A ground-reaching gown flows from her skeletal frame. The man wraps an arm around her bare shoulders.
— Excuse me — I say in a whisper. At first they don't pay attention to me. — Excuse me — I repeat louder. The couple turns around. They poke the blank gaze of shining eyes at me. — Where is everyone? — I ask, pointing with my hands around me. — They are sleeping. They're warm, they're sleeping. It's not their time. — But you are here. You have come. Why? — We never leave — says the man. He stops at the last syllable and makes a sound as if he is choking. The woman does not look at him. Her hand seeks his hand. The old man opens his mouth and his jaw drops unnaturally low. I see a dark tongue writhing between gray teeth, disappearing again and again into the darkness of the esophagus. — In old age... In old age, it becomes increasingly difficult to fall asleep. We no longer have anyone to send us away. — It's like a curse — the woman explains. — A nasty curse. But don't worry about us. Please don't think about us. It only causes us pain. — She croaks when she talks about pain. They both hunch over more and more, as if the words are weighing them down. — A curse? — I ask. The woman just shakes her head. She pulls the man by the sleeve. They move on. — Wait! — I raise my voice. It spreads through the cemetery. — What do you mean it's not their time? They always come on this night. Always the same.
— Not their time. They don't know they are supposed to get up. They sleep like trees until they feel spring. They wait like birds to fly away for the winter. They wait until the sun stops heating the stone. At this time of year they are very sensitive to sweat. They don't know that they are supposed to get up. Simple as that. The souls sleep because their season no longer looks like their season. Someday they will return. Maybe later, maybe in winter, if it's still coming. Then they will need our help. Lost, lost so much that they will go out to look for their loved ones. Then they will start calling us themselves, hurrying away before they fall asleep again.
Nicely done!!