Legendary // H.S

68.

'Spirits in the dark are waiting'

*

The last time I went to Aldeburgh was for Dad's funeral. It was held at a little church not far from the old house, a local one I had been Christened in as a baby but had never ventured inside of since.

That was a perfect day. Something he would have loved. He always enjoyed having big groups of people around, always loved the company of others. Of course, it was so he could keep an eye on those he cared about most, the very notion of having people standing around for him sending him into a fit, but somehow, I think he'd like knowing that all those people came out for him. That his efforts didn't go unnoticed, and people wished to thank him for everything.

Dad had the warmest heart. Like a wood fire after a day in the snow, his kindness and compassion could heat up even the coldest of people. In his presence, the ice would thaw, and spring would begin. That's what it always felt like with him; growth and rebirth. Because he'd always give people second chances and allow them to come back stronger than ever. If their first try didn't turn out great, he'd nourish them to make sure that by next spring, they'd be able to achieve whatever they set out for.

He did that with me my whole life, allowing me the space to make mistakes and never punishing me for them. Instead, they were celebrated like the victories, and after time I began to believe that there was a power to falling, too. I started to forget that once I got older, but, even in the uncertainty of our current days I seem to hold onto that small lesson he taught me.

In the drive up to Suffolk, I'd asked Harry to take me to the graveyard before we made our way to the house, telling him that I needed to say hi to my old man and have a chat. He didn't question it, simply giving my hand a squeeze in response. And now, as I walk through the church yard, there is a peace that I never thought I would find taking over my body.

The sun hangs high in the sky, its rays enough to burn me if I sit in it too long. A subtle breeze from the shore moves towards the church, my hair blowing in the wind behind me. In the heat I can hear the joy of beach goers just a mile or so down the road, their excitement travelling in the wind. In the sky sits no clouds, only the crisp blue hue of the summer that you come to expect in this part of the country.

When I was younger, Dad and I would go around some local churches, even after we moved from this area into another, and do grave rubbings. In the oldest of graveyards, we'd bring paper and charcoal and sit in front of the stones for hours just shading away. As I got older and my mind became more curious, I'd keep the sheets with me and try and find out information on the people buried beneath. It became a little project for us, securing a name then researching them in the local library for the most insignificant pieces of information, but they allowed us to create stories about their lives and deaths. In the process, they were no longer names on a stone, forgotten by the passing generations; they were now individuals with fulfilled lives and dreams and memories.

I suppose it's something I stuck to. When I watch people in the street I find myself concocting narratives for their lives, imagining what they're like, how they spend their time, what they want and if they'll get it. I'd sit behind the counter in the shop and stare outside the large windows for hours on slow days, simply living in a fantasy.

Perhaps I should have known all along that my lust for life would guide me towards greater things. But that it would also lead me towards danger.

There some weeds growing around the graves, the yard clearly not kept in good condition, most likely due to budget cuts in the parish, but a few of the stones are clearer than others, Dad's being one of them. In my absence others have been to visit his grave frequently, making sure it's constantly cared for, just as he cared for all of us. The flowers from the funeral have since been replaced with fresher ones, but even they're wilting slightly. With me today I brought some tulip bulbs with the intent of planting them on either side, along with another bouquet of flowers to display. I'd contacted the church first, the dean a friend of my Dad's, and he happily agreed to let me. He even promised to water them every week.