The Gravestone

The gravestone was wrong, but she didn't realise until afterwards.

This error was all on her; the outpost was isolated enough, in both time and space, that one single industry tended to be one single person's — or occasionally one single family's — responsibility. Hers was the dead, and she was good at it.

She had clipped his nails first. Nails keep growing after death, for a little while. This man's nails had been much cleaner than her general clientele, which was a nice treat.

Then she'd cut his hair, and his beard, for the same reasons; nails and hair are both made of dead cells. He'd looked nice. She'd treated him with a little formaldehyde, so he wouldn't go off during his funeral. He'd worn a nice three-piece. Black, with red collaring. She’d put the carnation he’d worn at his wedding carefully put into his lapel.

She hadn't cried.

She hadn't gone to the funeral. She'd spent the time carving the gravestone. Just his name, and the dates. Sixty-one years spanned between them. He'd not wanted anything more. Nice and simple, he'd often said. Just my name, and the years I was alive.

She'd buried him, at the base of the gravestone. Everyone had gathered, said nice things they might’ve even believed, and then left. She'd stood there alone, after all was done, for three whole minutes before she'd realised. The error on the gravestone — she’d carved the wrong name.

This man's name had not been Father.

Buddy Ray Deering is a Writer, Actor and General Nuisance from London. They are currently studying at Bangor University, where they have been writing a great deal more than they have been studying — don't tell their lecturers. In their free time, they enjoy watching pretentious old films.