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Rosemary.

story and images by Myron Ropp

I leaned over with my hands flat on the ground. I could smell the earth. Rosemary. I started to dig with my fingers.

©Myron Ropp

©Myron Ropp

I do not dream often. I was standing at the entrance to a cemetery. It was not quite dark, but it would not be long before it would be. I was walking. Reading the stones. Names. Dates. The short endearing inscriptions. Our baby. Beloved Husband. Heavens Gain. Gone But Not Forgotten. Always in our Thoughts. Rest In Peace. Forever United. Walking. Reading. Walking faster. Smith. Daigle. Olinger. William. Bertha. In Memory of. Hightower. Dear Son. Elizabeth. Born in. Departed this life. Robert. Anne. 1923. 1898. 1944. Killed in Action. John. Rosemary. I stopped. Rosemary. I knelt. Rosemary. The dew was settling on the grass. I could feel it already dampening my jeans. Rosemary. I leaned over with my hands flat on the ground. I could smell the earth. Rosemary.

©Myron Ropp

©Myron Ropp

I started to dig with my fingers. First the grass. Then the soil. It was now dark. Dig. The earth was getting looser. I could hear my own labored breathing. Huge handfuls of dirt cast aside. I was getting deeper. Rosemary. Easily down two feet. I slide down into the hole I had made. Dig. Claw. Scrape. Breathing harder. Sweat. I think I was crying. Yes. I know I was. Three foot. Three and half. Soil now flying.

©Myron Ropp

©Myron Ropp

It was dark, yet I could see. I wondered how that was possible. Sweating. Crying. Rosemary. My fingers struck something hard and rigid. Wood. I think it was wood. Yes it was wood. Clawing. Digging. I was in the hole now. Hands and knees upon a flat surface of wood. Both hands groping for the side. To open it. Rosemary. I had the edge. I pulled and yanked. Nothing. Harder. Crying. Pull. Pull. PULL. I felt it give. Straddling the wood. Reaching. Lifting the lid. Rosemary. Gazing down. Down into the darkness. Leaning over to see. See better. Rosemary.
I awoke. I could feel the air of the ceiling fan upon my body. I was cold. My hair was sopping wet. I brought my hand up to run my fingers through my hair. Just a dream. A horrible dream. My hand felt funny. Odd. Peculiar. I reached for my cell phone. Flashlight. Select ON. I aimed the beam upon my body. I was completely covered in dirt. Mud. Grit. Grass. From my chest to my bare feet. I hate when my dreams are this real. My wife is gonna have a cow.

2 Responses to “Rosemary.”

  1. Mary Miguez says:

    Another wonderful story from that gem down south. Fantastic Myron, highly entertaining especially the “wife having a cow”. You got us good! (Laughing)

    • Myron says:

      Thank you. You always have my my back. Always with your supportive words. I do appreciate you.

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