Grave

"Grave" - Audio

Written & Read by Manuela Russo

Music Composed by Sasha Perskie & Peyton Spencer

Grave

My grave is filthy. There is moss and mold engraved in my name. Long, dark vines trail up the stone. It looks as if it’s been in the ground for centuries. How long have I been here? I’m uncertain. All I know is that my husband will visit me once a week, every Wednesday. That is how I pass the time. Perched on top of my grime-coated gravestone, nails digging into its sides, feet kicking into the dirt, waiting for him to arrive. 

Luckily, today is Wednesday. On Wednesdays the moon always seems to shine brighter, as if the sky knows that he’s coming. And there he is. Walking up to my grave holding a blooming bouquet of moon flowers. Every day I think about this moment. I think about Wednesday night where my husband will arrive at my grave holding moon flowers. He places the flowers carefully at my feet where a hole seems to grow deeper and deeper from my habit of kicking up the dirt. 

He is always so gentle. He didn’t deserve to see me die. He didn’t deserve to see me meld to our bed, weakened and fragile. My heart unwinding to a stop. I knew that I would die, I always had. Illness loomed over me my entire life. It is my fault that my husband is a widower. I could have denied his engagement, telling him that it isn’t worth the grief he will experience in just a few short years. But it was impossible. My passion for him was far too strong to say no to an everlasting promise of eternal love. I wish I could say that I regret my decision, but I don’t. If I hadn’t married him, he wouldn’t be standing here now, over the dirt that conceals my decomposing corpse, still wearing the ring on his left hand.

My husband kneels down, it reminds me of when he asked to marry me. When I realized that I would be the cause for so much tragedy in his life. He plucks a single moon flower from the bouquet placed at my grave then stands up again and holds the flower out to me. The flower shines with a radiant glow, almost as much as his silver wedding ring in the moonlight. I hold my hand out, even though I know he can’t see it, and curl my fingers around the flower. 

He rubs at his eyes where tears begin to well and I admit to myself that I am selfish. I am selfish because my husband does everything in his power to remember me, but it never seems enough. I’ve had a disturbing fantasy every day since my death where I envision his grave in the empty plot next to mine. I have come to the conclusion that death is the only circumstance where our relationship can be fulfilled. Death is the only circumstance where he can truly see me. And as I look at his face so full of grief and mourning, I admit that death is for the better. 

It’s like a switch flips in my brain. I stop kicking the dirt and look down at the gaping hole. I glance up at the moon flower, then at my husband’s eyes. I have been sitting here for what feels like centuries, waiting. Our routine is an endless cycle of waiting. He waits for his grief to dim. He waits to feel a subtle sense of remembrance for me instead of this intense longing. What am I waiting for? Who am I digging this grave for?

I realize that the answer to this question is much more simple than I make it out to be. I am waiting for him to die. And as I make this realization I have no choice but to crush the flower in my grasp and pull my husband down into his awaiting grave.

Manuela Russo, Grade 10

Creative Writing Major

Sasha Perskie , Grade 12

Piano Major

Peyton Spencer, Grade 12

Vocal Major