The Graveyard Cleaner

The gate creaked. It was heavy, metal, with twisting protrusions of rust jutting out between flecks of peeling paint. I clicked it shut, the mechanism groaning in protest, as if this wasn’t exactly what it was made to do. I wasn’t leaving, but closing it for the night. No one in. No one out.

The night was quiet. The sky was a dusty black, a light smattering of stars like galactic freckles, winter freckles, dulled by the city’s light pollution. I wasn’t that close to the city, but close enough to see the tips of skyscrapers looming above the trees, yellow lights blinking out as the world began to fall asleep.

A red bucket was clasped in one hand. The soapy water –lukewarm, now –sloshed against the sides, splashing onto my fingertips. In my other hand, I was holding a hard bristle brush, slightly matted, sagging like an old man’s hair. The tips were grey with dirt and grime and ashes.

The graveyard was a massive array –a maze of headstones and shining, granite beds placed haphazardly on the side of a winding gravel path. Easy to get lost, scary at night. Well, that was what my daughter used to say, anyway.

‘Cemeteries creep me out. It’s like a maze, but the walls are made of dead people.’

I had laughed. Insensitive? Maybe. But how could I not? She was still at the phase where her cheeks stretched into apples when she laughed, gap-toothed and high-pitched.

‘Dead people can’t hurt you,’ I had responded. ‘They’re dead!’

It wasn’t true. Dead people could hurt you. And they did. To the people who were still alive, they slashed their hearts, consumed them, swallowed them in darkness. If someone who was living did that, they’d be spending years in jail. But you couldn’t jail dead people. They were already in their own prison, sealed underground, while the living spoke in soft voices about how they lit up every room and were always so kind. Didn’t matter if it was true or not.

I placed the bucket on the floor. It sat unevenly on the rough gravel, but the water stayed contained inside. I dunked my brush inside, and soap suds clung to the bristles. Then I pressed it against the first stone and started to scrub.

Dirt streamed off like wet paint. It was satisfying, watching the engraved letters take form before me. Two years: date of birth, date of death. The entire span of this person’s life, inscribed on the stone before me. It was just a small stone, this one. No extravagant stone structure preceding it. But there was a small pot wedged into the ground, where three fake flowers battled against the gentle breeze. Their petals, once white, were now a dusty brown. They’d been there for a while.

It was my job, to clean the stones. Most people would find it creepy, or scary. Cleaning a cemetery at night. It was like working in a morgue. Surrounded by the dead. But it was actually one of the safest places to be at night. In all my years doing it, I’d only seen one other person pass through the cemetery at night. And she was an old woman, frail and sobbing, confused and disoriented. Someone else –a younger man, clean-shaven but dishevelled with dark circles beneath his eyes –came to pick her up. He called her away, voice as soft as a cloud, beckoned her to come with him. Reassuring, everything will be fine, you’re okay, it’s going to be fine. Hardly anyone to be scared of. Much less someone dead.

I moved onto the next grave. No matter how many I cleaned, there always seemed to be more. By the time I cycled through all of them, the first ones were dirty again. And the oldest ones never seemed to be truly clean. There were still dark, mottled stains between the letters, the stone never quite sparkling like some of the newer ones. But it seemed to matter less. No one visited those ones. They faded into the background, the only creatures aware of their existence were the bugs beneath the surface.

I took my time. Dip the brush into the bucket, press against the grave, scrub. Rinse. Repeat. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the natural grey of the stone and dirt that had become so deeply ingrained in it that it had turned into its own rock, sedimentary, crumbly. They looked like Mara’s eyes: a smoky silver, ashen, but as beautiful as pearls. The absence of a blue or green or brown didn’t make them bland, or boring. They were rare, precious, like a full moon. Of course, I could never get the graves to look as dazzling as they did. But I could try. I owed her that much, after all I’d done.

As the sun began to lighten the horizon to a deep azure, I felt the energy drain from my body. It was time to go. My work was done. I picked up my bucket –the water now a splotchy brown –and dumped my brush inside. I navigated to the back corner of the cemetery. The graves there seemed darker, even though I didn’t neglect them. They jutted out of the ground at uneven angles, shadows crawling across their surfaces. A couple had fake candles inside of small glass containers that had long since run out of battery. Most had above-ground stone beds –only the rich could afford them.

I dumped my bucket by my feet. I had reached the one grave I had never cleaned. It was dirty –so dirty, that it looked more like dirt than the ground beneath my feet. Caked with mud, sticks and leaves sprinkled over top. Water-stained. And yet, there were fresh flowers at the base. Someone –not me, of course –had scrubbed the plaque enough to see the name that was engraved there. Maybe they shed a tear or two before they left.

I hoped not. Whoever it was didn’t deserve to feel grief. After all, the dead couldn’t hurt anyone.

I jammed my fingers under a little ridge at the base of the stone bed. I felt it loosen. It took all my strength to lift it. Inside was exactly how you’d expect –dusty, moist, cramped.

Slowly, I slipped inside. I eased the lid closed on top of me. Darkness engulfed me, just as the first fingers of sunlight probed over the horizon.