A wellness check was called on the home in late March. Cold spells had kept dirty snow on the lawn as two uniformed officers knocked at the door. There were no cars in the driveway. Mail overflowed from the rusted metal box – a factor that contributed to the concerned neighbors calling the non-emergency police. “Something seems off there,” the neighbor had said. Using their ability to authoritatively bend the rules, the higher-ranking of the police officers motioned to head into the backyard. The home’s property line extended to the woods and was quite expansive. An unlatched gate provoked their entry, and although they saw it in the distance, they approached with total bewilderment. What else could it be, really?
About 500 feet into the yard, very squarely in the middle of the snowy plot, was the hole and the rock. The hole could have held much more than one frail man’s body, but that was all there was. His body was covered with the same dirty snow that blanketed all. The officers made no attempt at resuscitation; the smell hung in the air in spite of the cold snap breeze. They looked up and read the rock. It stood at a monolithic seven-and-a-half feet high and three and a quarter feet wide. It was dark and jagged with bits of shiny pieces. The carvings had been done with an expertise unseen by most in the small, cold town. Proper authorities were called. Medical technicians, coroners, deputies, and the like. High-definition pictures were taken. Police tape was drawn to prevent the small crowd from encroaching any further. A news van appeared, and then later another. While an ambulance had arrived for the purpose of removing human remains, the gurney and plastic body bag remained empty. The rock very clearly advised against his removal.
Based on what had been found on the property, the frail man had begun digging before he found the rock. After excavating it, he began his final work. With bezels and hammers, he had intricately carved a final testament into the cold stone, turning the unearthed monolith into his own.
The story was covered by national outlets, but few wanted to run the glib contents of what he had written. After all, it wasn’t to become any sort of monument. It was decidedly not a final stand for any sort of political ideology, religious pedagogy, or personal belief. Rather, it was something much more simple yet infinitely more complicated. It was the frail man’s obituary.
Soon after the officers’ discovery, a backhoe was driven in and filled the remainder of the grave. A ceremony was held. A local funeral home had seen the accommodations. One hundred chairs had been set up and one hundred seats were filled. Neither clergymen nor politicians spoke. Local poets and unpublished authors, however, had prepared prosaic eulogies that ranged from the haiku form to personal essays. Many cried. The senior of the two officers had been on patrol at the time of the funeral and was subsequently unable to attend. The town was unmoving during the patrol, as though all had ceased what they were doing in solemn solidarity. At the end of the officer’s shift, night fell along with powdery snow. April was a mere few days away but it felt further than ever. Before heading to their empty home, the officer stopped at the grocer where two bouquets of day-old flowers were purchased. One was a variety assortment. The others were forsythias.
The officer drove to the home of the grave and walked right into the backyard. The one hundred chairs now sat empty as the light white powder gently fell. The officer, still in uniform, stood squarely in front of the now-fille grave with its stony marker standing high above. The officer read and reread the obituary again and again and again in the pale light of the night. Though he would never consider himself an emotional person, the officer began quietly crying as a mysterious bodily reaction to the final lines:
Though you know me not, take solace in this being the fulfillment of my final wish. Regardless of my solitude, these months have been filled with a brace unbeknownst to me before. In my acceptance of this mortal coil, I have found a deeper universal love for this world we inhabit. Many secrets of this place remain unanswered, and many more of what comes next are still unasked. Let this tombstone preside as a reminder that this beautiful shared experience is worth living.
The officer placed the assortment of flowers among the countless others. The newly placed bouquet stood out, as it had yet to be enveloped by the cool pearl of the snow. The officer nodded and turned toward the patrol car, retracing the footprints left only minutes earlier. The officer drove with the windshield wipers fluttering, a futile attempt at visibility against the heaving snow.
The officer drove two towns over to where their childhood home had once been. Upon entering the cemetery in that town, the officer noticed the waxing crescent of the grey moon between a break in the clouds. Snow filled their vision as they quietly trekked among the countless graves until the right spot was found. The officer looked down at their parents’ shared plot as the new snow quietly fell. The officer clutched the forsythias, the officer’s mother’s favorite flower, in an ungloved hand. The officer hadn’t been to this site in years, and as they stood, they felt less alone than they had before. They were hopeful for a warm April. The officer wanted to put the flowers down on the parents’ shared plot but resolved to stay a little longer before doing so. Just another minute or two.