One cream, no sugar

I made a cup of coffee that morning. My eyes followed the cream as it swirled around in the mug. It seemed to resist mixing with the dark liquid in which it was placed. I imagined the cream was having a crisis about becoming part of a larger beverage – my coffee – rather than continuing on as its own entity; I empathized with it. I probably stared at the coffee too long as it was cold by the time I snapped out of it. But when it was finished I poured another cup of coffee, added the cream, watched it, etc. I think I repeated this motion four times, or six, or eight. I’m not really sure, but I do know that four and a half hours passed in this haze, and by the time I remembered the funeral, I had missed it.

I decided to walk to the grave site. It was only a few blocks from my apartment, across from my local church. I figured that since I had already missed the funeral there would be no harm in stalling a little longer, and so Instead of finding the headstone, I crossed the street. A church was the perfect place to deny reality, after all. For both the obvious reason, and the fact that time seems to halt within a church. People enter and exit all day, but nothing ever really happens. People can sit, and think, and pray, and talk to their hearts content, but after they leave the church will always be the same as it was before they entered. Some may say that they are stagnant or boring, but on this particular afternoon it was nothing less than complete bliss.

No one bothered me as I entered, and no one acknowledged me as I sat in one of the center pews, which was ideal. I didn’t really pray, and I didn’t really think about anything either, but I felt this was a safe place to return to my haze. This time it seemed to welcome me even more quickly. I stared at the cross, and Jesus’ dying body as I floated somewhere between wakefulness, and unconsciousness. By the time I snapped out of it, light no longer shone through the stained glass that surrounded me, and I decided I could delay it no longer.

I walked from the church, and swiftly across the street. The cemetery was small and contained fewer than thirty headstones, and so it was no arduous task to find the newest one. Sitting more or less in the middle, made of black marble, with the dirt in front of it still churned and chocolatey, it read: Here lies Harold Story 1989-2016. I sat in front of it, letting the dirt ruin my pants, and I waited until I heard the footsteps behind me.

“Have you delayed long enough?” The voice rang out, kind but firm. “It is rare someone manages this long.”

“I just wish they could have found something to write upon it, y’know?” I said, sort of to the entity behind me, sort of to no one, and I began to weep, “Caring friend, community leader, I know they aren’t true, but my god, something. No one deserves a blank tombstone.”

“You did, Harold,” the voice replied, its kindness gone, and I sniffled, understanding that it no longer mattered. I felt a strong hand grip my collar, and drag me backwards, through the cemetery, into the darkness, and away.