Graves

by Justin Cawthorne

The first grave appeared four days ago.

Hardly anyone noticed it. I can't say I thought that much about it either.

Come to think of it, at first I thought it was quite funny. Harmless even. Now it's a different kind of funny: like someone who's funny in the head and takes a shotgun into a room full of people. I don't know if Aaron found it funny when he woke up that morning and found a gravestone sticking out of his garden.

Probably not.

It had been the same routine for both of us over the years. Every morning I'd walk by his house - clearing my head, getting my morning breather, whatever you like to call it. Aaron would be there in his garden, spending the brighter part of the day keeping nature in check. If it rained then the work went on hold, but I'd still see him sitting ruefully under the porch, biding his time until the weather turned in his favour. He might have been able to control his plants, flowers and anything else that grew out of the ground, but the skies were out of his hands. I think he always resented that.