Christening The House

TOMBSTONE.....

The pull gets stronger.

It would be so easy to let it possess my body, carry me forward to its source. A tiny voice within me tells me to turn around and leave. To run away. To leave before it's too late, before I lose what little free will I still possess.

But....

The Curiosity wins.

As I enter the oldest section of the cemetery, the grave markers change from simple marble placards to upright stones and carved crosses. A statue, an angel weeping, The blackened mortar that fills the seam between case and lid, is chipped and gaping. I imagine that I can simply peek between the slabs to view the bones of the deceased child. Icy fingers scratch down my spine.

Pulling my jacket tight against the chills, I walk around.... My circular path brings me to the deeply rooted guardian tree. I part its branches with a steady hand and find myself standing before a breathtaking work of art.

A round shaped grave, seems to have been carved from a single piece of marble. If it wasn't, the work was so expertly executed that I cannot see any sign of a joint or seam. It towers above me, at least seven feet high and three feet in diameter. It was mesmerizing.

I walk around the monument, fascinated and curious. It is so different from every other memorial stone here. It belongs in a European graveyard amid the tombs of fallen kings, not in this small rainy town. My toe catches on a solid object, mostly buried beneath the thick blanket of dried grass. With one booted foot, I scrape away the crumps to reveal a marble plaque, filthy and discolored but otherwise in excellent condition.

I read the words and feel them take hold of me......worming their way into my very bones.

Arthit Rojnapat

Born October 18, 1805

Our Beloved Son and Brother

We Will Mourn Your Loss

Every Day of This Existence

'Every day of this existence'

It's an odd choice of words, even for a century-old tombstone. And there is no dash nor date to mark his departure from this world. I circle the tombstone once more, then reach out, placing my hand flat against its cool surface. The stone hums beneath my hand. Resonant and warm, the feeling echos in my bones, shaking my whole existence.

I was alarmed, but I didn't pull away. I stepped closer.

With both hands pressed against the icy marble stone, I feel it. The pull of the tides. The heat of the sun cresting the horizon. The rush of the blood within my veins. I hold my breath until I am giddy and lightheaded. This is life. This is what it feels like to belong. To be wanted. To have the essence of my very being treasured within something greater than myself.

It tells me I am home.

Home.....

As the light fails, I drag myself away. I feel colder already, no longer sheltered beneath the old tree. The pull is still there, but it weakens as I walk away. I miss it. I vow to return tomorrow, after college.

Arthit Rojnapat......

I wonder who he was and how he died. I wonder if his family's descendants still live in or around the town. I do not recognize the name from anywhere, but a lot can happen in a couple generations. Perhaps they moved away, or the name disappeared with the death of the last male descendant. With a sense of determination, I promised myself to find answers.

*****************

Next day..... My feet took me on the path of cemetery on their own, the strange pull has returned. It is almost insistent. It quickens my steps and my heart rate. I am nearly jogging as I pass the old orchard, the scent of fermentation was thick in the air.