Trying To Endure

Chapter Twenty-Six

April Levesque

The issue about the sea of dead — it is insufferably dull and heart-breaking. Yet gradually marching through the imposing gates like an awakened corpse, there is an eerie solace, as if the wraiths are aware of Rhett Wallace's assault.

My heart is as bleak as the meaningless heaven. The existence I have should at least join the invisible — a phantom haunting Rhett Wallace's frail dignity. The sculptures of St Michael the Archangel, the sculptures of ethereal warriors, their wings spread out, their stone stares following, turning, with each advancement.

By now, a teacher realised my hasty absence, my hasty sprint to leave a building of darkness and enter the ground of where the supportive darkness lies.

Edgewater's cemetery.

Left and right, front and behind, are gravestones, vaults, crypts. New and ancient. Small and large. Cuddled in the soggy soil. The sombre mood ingrained in the veil is ceaseless, not a single breach allowed to leak hope. A faint drizzle falls, quenching the earth, reinvigorating the trees and plants, dripping from their boughs like stretched tears.

I cannot see another presence in the dead of light. I trudge to a recently installed, cosmic, white fence encircling a private, devoted area. When your brother's best friend is a renowned king, you have good perks. Luke is determined to make Mike commemorated with veneration, in each generation. He organised the best funeral, invited generals and close celebrity friends, ordered a lake of the army to carry the coffin to the burial site.

An opulent ivory cross is impregnated in the soft, exuberant grass. Huddling the cross are thousands of flowers, cards and letters from citizens all over Edgewater, from citizens all over England, from citizens of different countries. Behind the gravestone-cross is a statue of Mike, standing on a rostrum, grinning as he salutes. The statue looks exactly like him — homogeneous hews and traces; perfect details.

On the rostrum is an inscription:

"This hero sacrificed his life to defend the innocent from danger and wickedness. This hero understood the responsibilities, advantages and consequences of fighting in wars yet he did not give a damn."

I chuckle at the last sentence. Luke added that. Mike always said how he wanted his gravestone to be uplifting.

To the right corner of this large square is a mausoleum. Built from the finest marble and limestone. The roof is turquoise and domed. Branches arch above it like a protective cage, attaining the brilliant rays. Lush beds of flowers embedded the vigorous grass.

Luke really outdid himself.

Hesitantly, I unzip my bag and hunt for the key. Luke gave our family an extra key in case we lose the first. Unlocking the heavy, hand-forged iron doors, I step in, inhaling the pleasant scent of roses — the type of aroma a rosary would have.

The interior is spellbinding. The light illuminating through the mosaics on each wall, in a range of colours. Two window sills. In the centre is the grave, a protruding white like a podium. Behind it is a wall of a painting — my painting — of Mike laughing in youthful crinkles, twinkling in his typical mischief and humbleness, dark-brunette curls cluttering his head.

Below the picture is:

MIKE TAVISH LEVESQUE

BRITISH ARMED FORCES

BELOVED SON, BROTHER, FATHER, HUSBAND, FRIEND AND INSPIRATION

Candles burnish before the portrait and on the dais. Someone was here recently. Today, presumably. The candles are purple, and so it must be Makayla — I've seen those candles in her house. A scruffy paper of scruffy writing is situated next to the throng of light: Hi, Daddy! — Mike's son.