Silhouettes

In the past, whenever we walked along the hill on this new island, we loved looking down at the thick white walls of the cemetery, watching the unique cypresses in the cemetery, and gazing at the old ornate iron gate.

For some reason, we always stared at the silent piece of land enclosed within, lovesick and longing, yet we never entered.

At the time, I didn’t understand that this was soon to be Jorge's final resting place. Yes, Jorge slept forever.

The cemetery in the early morning loose is filled with the sound of birds washing over it. The wind brings the fragrance of leaves. Below the not-so-distant hillside, you can see the place where Jorge last worked, the old town, and of course, the blue sea.

I always naively sat there until dusk, sitting until the darkness brought shadows of death to the surroundings.

It was always the same gravekeeper who came to me with a big copper ring in his hand. On the ring hung an old big key, and he gently comforted me, "Madam, go back! It's dark."

I thanked him, followed him silently through rows of crosses, and finally, watched as he locked the iron gate separating the living from the dead. Only then did I walk towards the town with thousands of lights.

When I returned to the rented apartment, my mother opened the door as soon as she heard the footsteps upstairs. Faced with my haggard father and mother, who had been waiting all day, I said, "Dad, Mum, I'm home!", and then went back to my room, lay down, looked at the ceiling, and waited for dawn to come again. The cemetery opens at six in the morning, and I could then go to Jorge again.

My parents followed me into the room right away. My mother was always holding a bowl of soup, looking at my face, almost pleading in a low tone, "Even a sip is good. I won't force you not to go to the cemetery, I just ask you to have a sip. How can you survive without eating anything in such a long time?”

It's not that I meant to defy my mother, but I couldn't eat anything, I shook my head and refused to look at my parents again. I hid my face in my pillow and stayed still. My mother stood there for a while, and then she took the soup out.

The living room was dead silent, my parents seemed to have nothing to talk about.

I don’t know which day it was since Jorge was buried. The stack of wreaths was already withered. I knelt on the ground, pulling the iron wires entangled in the wreaths with all my strength. I carried the detached stems to the distant trash can, trip by trip.

The flowers are gone, and what is exposed under the sun is a pile of dry, yellow dust. Beneath this eye-catching land that I have seen over and over thousands of times, lies my most beloved husband.

Fresh flowers were bought again, placed in a big vase filled with clear water. The nameless yellow soil was still stubbornly silent. In the breeze, the red and white roses were swaying gently, but they could not bring any signs of life.

In the midday sun, I came down from the cemetery, parked the car, and stared blankly at the passing cars and pedestrians.

From time to time, people I knew or didn’t know passed by me, stopped, in accordance with the ancient customs on the island, they held my hands, kissed my forehead, murmured a few words of condolence then bowed their heads and walked away. I just numbly said thank you, without really hearing what they were saying.

In my hand was a crumpled piece of white paper with a list of things I had to face—settling the account with the funeral home, seeing the autopsy result with the coroner, returning Jorge's identity card and driver's license to the police station, filling in the incident process at the naval base, applying for a death certificate at the court, requesting a tomb style permit at the city hall, proclaiming the death at the Social Welfare Bureau, making long-distance calls to the Madrid head office for Jorge's work contract certificate, finding out the schedule and cost of shipping the car back to Gran Canaria island, and performing one painful but helpless trivial matter after another.

I sat quietly calculating which thing to do first, and then remembered that some documents that need to be photocopied were forgotten at home.

The day seemed extraordinarily hot, the black mourning clothes made people sweat profusely. The mad thirst that had surged up since the moment I learned about Jorge's accident struck again.

At this time, by the door of the post office, I saw my father and mother. This was the first time I saw them in town after Jorge was buried. It seemed that I had never brought them out to do things together. They should be the ones who are waiting for me to return home all day.

I still leaned on the car door, did not call them, but Dad quickly signaled to me and pulled Mom across the street.

That day, my mother was dressed in a navy blue shirt and a white skirt, and my father was wearing the only set of grey suit he brought when he hurried back to this remote island, he even wore a tie.

In my mother's hand was a bouquet of yellow carnations.

They walked from the other end of the town, and even Dad, who is not afraid of the heat, is wiping sweat.

"Where are you going?" I asked apathy.

"Visiting Jorge." My mother said, and pulled out a letter from her bag. "Son's recent letter."

The letter was delivered two days ago. Jorge will not be able to read it again. I didn't open it either. I just passed it to my mother silently.

Dad pulled out his wallet, counted out a few crumpled banknotes, and handed them to me. "This is your living expenses."

My mother took out a food container from her bag. "I cooked some food, don't bother to return the container."

Rice with scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes, I used to love the most.

"Dad, Mum," I finally couldn't hold back the tears. I sobbed and bowed my head and started crying. I cried very painfully.

My father patted my head gently, and my mother held my hand tightly. No one spoke for a while.

"Go back!" Finally, my father's voice was very weak. "Our little home is still there, the Canary Islands are still there, and... you will always be our good baby."

"I know." I hoarsely replied, "I will go back soon."

"You have to survive," my mother whispered.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, and my mother's skirt floated up. The yellow carnations in her hand were also blown away.

Watching my dad bend over to pick up the flowers, I knew that I must be strong. Just like what my father and mother practiced on this distant island.

The silhouette of the bouquet is so warm, and it also brings strength.