Pulled himself into a sitting position. Sniffed the air. St. Sebastian’s, he thought recognizing the smell, the sounds. The soft earth, the dying lindens that sat in a hunched row at the south entrance and the traffic passing steadily. Sniffed again and half remembered a poem he’d memorized as a school boy long ago.
Under the linden tree on the open field, he sung to himself, rising to stand in the empty grave. Reached up to the grave’s edge with his hands. Pulled himself out. His feet carving away at the soft wall of the open grave. The legs of his grey flannel pants soiled and browned as he his pulled himself up. Sitting on the grass, he brushed himself off. Looked around. Glad to find he was right. He was at the graveyard. Maybe I finally woke someone from that everlasting sleep, he thought to himself.
Raymo Johnstone 1956 – 2008, Beloved Uncle depart from us but leave your love, read the headstone. Raymo sounded more like a nickname. Riggley wanted to be buried with his nickname on his headstone and not his formal given name, Ridgeway. It made him sound like a corporation or lawnscaping company.