Overgrown

“You’ve got a college degree? What are you doing here?” the driver asks as we watch another coffin get lowered into the dirt.

I cannot find an answer that would make sense, so I settle with, “It pays the bills”, because that isn’t a lie. He nods and we continue to stand in silence. The second-hand smoke from his cigarette makes my nose hurt, but I don’t tell him that.

The music of a funeral is desolate. It is silence that ruminates as memories rot. It is the lingering tones of loss.

And then it is over. The body is under dirt. The bereaved leave and the hearse driver’s job is done. But mine is not. I linger like the music. For the time keeps passing and the grass keeps growing.

My employer is the passage of time, and I as the worker intend to fulfill my duty.

The hedges are tight and the trees are neat, but the grass is a bit shaggy and some plots are looking bare.

I spend a few hours cutting the grass, hand-picking the weeds, and planting some flowers near the plots whose dirt lacks life.

I clean headstones and sweep pathways. I listen to the wind rustle the trees. I watch the birds and the squirrels. I occasionally talk to the chatty visitors.

I think about what it must be like, to be nothing. To be matter without consciousness, slowly turning into different matter as the clocks turn and people walk above. To lay with the worms, but be somewhere else.

I think about where they may be. If they appreciate the work I do, though I doubt it. My job is mostly for the contentment of the living.

I imagine they are off resting somewhere of their choosing. No worries, no stress. No reason to be upset. No chaos, unless that is of their liking.

I imagine where I will be, when my time comes.

I see myself seated atop a rock in an island in the sky. Fishing in a pond that reflects the vast array of stars surrounding me. The moon is close. It is the only thing that illuminates the chunk of earth I have stolen for my forever. The light glints off the surface of the pond as I reel in a fish. I take it off its hook. It doesn’t flail. It sits with me on my rock and we watch the plants grow. The land is overgrown, but we don’t mind. I’m retired anyway.

But for now, that is a product of pure fantasy. Until then, I must clean and pick weeds. I will trim grass and cut trees.

If I’m lucky, someday maybe someone will do the same for me.