Dirt

My first meeting with dad on which it's just the two of us. He is there, below the pile of dirt and I have brought the wooden lineal, with which my grandmother was cutting the fabrics, one small shovel and trowel. I've come to level the grave - a ritual, which we didn't do on time whether because of my ignorance, whether of skepticism, which fills me recently. But after all this was commented on forty days, I decided, that I'll do it myself. Because for those things must not be paying to other people, you have to be able to do it by yourself, even if you are not sure how exactly and what would be the result .

At least these thoughts are going through my head, while I'm entering the graveyards and in my ears are spinning "Skeletons". I'm watching the grieving, who have gathered for today's rituals, and also the priests, who are wandering around the church. Some kind of disgust is overwhelming me every time when I see them, I can't shake off from that feeling. In their black clothes, walking under the mixed shade, some with hats, others with reddish necks, they are far from my idea for holy man, for a servant, who shall bring relief to the soul of the passed away person or my own. Some of them are giving me low looks - probably they are thinking that I'm one of those people, who are fixing graves cheaply. It's even better that way, I don't care. The sun is shining and I'm adjusting myself for work. Actually I'm afraid if I'll do it like it has to be done, because I have the desire to show my respect towards my parent in that way. Probably is somehow disrespectful, that I'm listening to music, while I'm walking between the parcels. I look at the graves - the stones of some of them have become older, the cemetery locations themselves are being slowly swallowed in the earth, abandoned by the relatives, actually maybe there is no one to take care for them. Young, old, all kind of ages are watching me with a smiling indulgence from the images in the stone. I'm imagining some stories, which may have happened to those people. Probably again I'm showing some kind of disrespect.

I stand in front of the grave, I take off the headphones and leave the player on the grave stone. Dad haven't been listening music for a long time. Actually I have one strange desire to come one day with a cassette recorder or something else and to listen to music together. To show him what I have discovered. Few rows from me, a woman, middle age with red dyed hair, is smoking. The candles on the grave are burning and she is looking somehow around her - maybe she is enjoying the silence or have sunk in thoughts. It's so quiet, that I hear the music from the headphones. Somewhere, probably in nearby parcel, are digging.

I decide to begin the work systematically. First to clean the soil, that covers the ends of the grave. I grab the trowel and start. Softly from the one side, that from the side of the lantern, but the dirt is falling more than it should be and that's why I throw it above. I realize, that it's much more that I'll need, but I decide to make one big pile and then to align it. I don't know how much time takes for one coffin to decay, and also the remains inside it. It's strange, that I think for this. So strange, that and the music, which is from my player, I consider to be inappropriate and that's why I change it with radio. Rock radio. Because of dad. And my work began to go. And least somewhat.

Steadily I found my way, which may not be the right one, but gives me some inner harmony. I take away from the earth that covers the borders, I pile it where it's less, I firm it, trying to make flat area on which to be able to put more. Meanwhile, in the alleys are moving people with bicycles, those offering cheap fixing of the grave, looking for the next mourning victim. Maybe they consider me for competition, but soon I expect someone to dare and offer me his services.

They play some classics on the rock radio and I salute my father. While the bitter sweet symphony by the Verve is going on, I make an unexpected discovery. Separating the dirt, I stumble on a black fabric, a lot of black fabric, which shreds and sticks on the shovel and the trowel. I remember the bag with the remains on the funeral, but it was white. Is it possible to get black so fast, but also it shouldn't be so up. I wonder if I'll stumble upon something unpleasant, something disturbing. I turn out right in my premonition. I pick out small bone, probably from an arm, judging by the shape. A bone of a child. Probably my grandfather's sister, Margarita, who had died nine years old by a inept way. I hold the bone and shudder. I sense that I don't feel myself worthy to touch it, I feel also grief, that this bone is alone. I put it near the gravestone and gently I cover it with earth. I begin to think how much is actually missing from my unknown relatives, who have perished long ago - with each digging to be missing a piece, to vanish. Isn't that somehow a desecration?

Slowly I start finding also other bones - joints, ribs, vertebras - small, mixed with the soil, turning into soil. I see the signs of decaying, the little holes on them. I feel my hands somebody's else, like they are not mine, which are touching the bones of my ancestors. The necrologue for 40 days with the photo of my father is watching me from the tree. Maybe he is trying to tell me something ...

And there is showing the concerned worker. Fat young man, probably my age. Says that he'll do the grave for twenty five leva. I answer him that I don't have so much money. He is sympathetic and says, that he'll do it for ten, he'll take away the trashy soil, so it will be pretty and tidy. When he tells about the carrying away of the soul I start to think about the bones, which I've already found, I look the soft earth that has left and the big pile, I'm forming. Would there will be other bones. I don't want to risk they'll be taken away somewhere. And I've decided to do it on my own. I explain him, that I'll just do it alone. He gives me an advice to "beat: the soil on the top and I thank him. He says where is his office. He is too sympathetic, and the car, from which he got out, is still on the alley. I continue to work and in my brain rushes the thought of the possibility afterwards to be done vendetta to the grave. I hope that won't happen. I continue to pile dirt, and while I'm doing this I'm convincing myself more and more, that the solution is fire. "Dust to dust". Isn't the burning more clean, isn't it the same? In every case who are becoming one with the world ...

There is no more where to put on soil, I check the rest for other bones and then I scatter it around. I realize that I've not bring a broom. It would be of use. I stand straight above the grave and the sky has darkened from wind and clouds. It may rain, but my skin is sticky from sweat and my right hand pulses from exhaustion. My fingers are filled with dirt and the skin is senseless, I rub my fingers together and I don't feel anything. It's like the contact with the bones and the earth have taken that from me. I pack the things, stop the music, I cross myself and leave. At the first working fountain I wash my hands. I feel that I want to cry. Afterwards I go away with fast pace ...