In the Ross Bay cemetery there are several rows of simple gravestones. Each bares the name and age of a child who died during the time when Chinese slaves were common in Victoria, BC. They all have a single flower carved above the names. This piece is based on the gravestones for two brothers who died within a few years of each other, neither one reaching the age of 3.
Mei’s eyes hung low as the box sank into the ground. There was barely enough room and she heard the sound of two wooden caskets scraping together. Two brothers had met.
Her mourning clothes were loose, her body having shrunk since their last use. Men in suits flashed dark looks her way for making such a public spectacle but she could not hold back the sobs. Each suited figure dumped a handful of dirt in the hole and Mei listened to each “thud.”
Masamachi had become nothing more than another name etched in another stone. Each block of text some acknowledgement that they would accomplish nothing more. Mei thought they were acknowledging her failure.
Her makeup ran down her face, foundation congealing with tears and gathering under her chin but she ignored it. Instead she focussed on ripping at the careful stitches that lay around her wrists. Who cared about mourning clothes? They were just some uniform that trapped her there, made her look the same as all the other guests. One of the crowd. But if they were all the same; why did no one else sob? Why did no one else tremble? Why did no one else see how perverse this ritual was?
Twice. This was twice in two years that she’d stood before this empty hole and watched a box, a son, sink below the ground. Just weeks before he’d been fingers, toes. He’d been smiles and the month-old gurgles that only babies can perfect. Just weeks before he’d been her little boy.
But now he was just a corner. A pine corner of some wood shoe box that held nothing more than bones and skin and a tiny heart that would not beat. One tiny corner fighting through the dirt. She turned to her husband whose solemn gaze could not disguise his blame.
“What if he tries to get out?”
Her husband turned away, disgusted by her superstition and looked instead towards the priest who gave an empty speech. One baby is an accident, but two? Sudao had gone to sleep and never woken up. Despite Mei’s shock at the ordeal, Akira had suspected but said nothing. When Masamichi’s heart just stopped he wondered if her nightly tears were something more than mere stress. Had something taken its toll on Mei?
As the others left, she knelt in the itchy stubble and watched each scoop of dirt, listening with an ear to ground to hear if his breath returned, if his nails began to scratch at the wood. For the first time she felt an emptiness. There was no pain, merely a sort of numb sensation. She was not a mother. Mothers give life.
As she stroked the black cloth around her belly she already knew what was coming. She’d had the cramps, the swelling, the sick-to-her-stomach feeling that followed her through the mornings. She found herself wishing that it would disappear, just to save herself from doing this all over again.