Old Ben

Old Ben was out by the Poulsbo cemetery cutting back the overgrown grass outside of the wrought iron barrier fence.  The town cemetery wasn't big.  Plenty of room for its residents.  Plenty more room for any new appointees to the site.  Poulsbo is a small town.  I liked seeing Ben out there.  He didn't like power tools much and he was swinging his scythe back and forth, taking down the rushes in sweeping arcs as he walked his way down along the fence.

I asked him why he didn't use something more powerful.  It would make the job easier and go by faster.  He told me he was in no hurry and the grass would come back no matter how fast or slow he went.  He said he liked the steady rhythmic pace because it quieted his mind  and brought him peace.  Sweeping.  Just sweeping on down the line.

The same went for the maintenance inside the fence.  He trimmed the weeds and grass with hand clippers and mowed the lawn with a push mower.  He figured this was a quiet place where folks come to rest and the last thing they wanted was a loud racket and the smell of burning fossil fuels. He felt it somehow took the charm away from the place.

I remember Ben working out here since I was a kid.  Always working the yard, keeping it neat.  He liked to greet the new residents and welcome them to his little cemetery and promised them a peaceful eternal rest.  He would guarantee it for as long as he was able.  To this day, many decades later he is still there, swinging, sweeping back and forth. As I passed by I waved and walked up to old Ben.  We would exchange the usual pleasantries.  Doin' okay?  Doin' Okay.  You?  Just fine.  See you tomorrow?  Yup! It wasn't much, but it was a communication.  In forty years, the conversation never changed and we never grew tired of it.  I wandered on down the road and Ben returned to swinging - sweeping.

Then one morning I came by and Ben wasn't there.  I don't recall him ever missing a day in all these years.  As I recall he was there every day.  He was part of that little plot of land.  I figured I would come back later that night on my way back and see if anyone knew what had become of Ben.  I wanted to make sure he was okay after all.

When I returned the sun was settling down to the horizon and dusk was turning to twilight.  Up in the distance I saw a figure with a long scythe.  Perhaps Ben was working the nights.  I suppose it was possible.  I opened the gate with a creak and closed it with a chink.  Old iron complains when you move it.  I set off up the hill to see how old Ben was doing.  The night mist was rolling in and it nearly obscured the figure, but he turned and saw me.  A nod of recognition.  It must have been Ben so I approached.

As I got closer, I realized this wasn't Ben after all.  It was some other man -  tall and dressed in long flowing robes.  The breeze caused them to flit from side to side and flutter.  The figure turned to me.  There was no face.  The dark hollow of the hood bore no visage - just black nothingness.

The tightness in my chest came quick and I felt a pressure on me like an elephant sitting on my chest.  I sank to my knees.  What was this? Has my time come?  But, I wasn't afraid.  A calm came over me.  You doin' okay?  Doin' okay.  You?  Just fine.  With the figure reached out his free hand and took mine.  I was lifted and the cemetery fell below me as I rose up.

Is this where Ben lived when he wasn't working the grounds?  I looked around and saw many faces I recognized.  I knew the people, but they were from a long time ago.  From before the cemetery when they walked the streets in the little town of Poulsbo.  Now I was here to join them and enjoy peace and calm where motors didn't roar and burning fuel didn't fill the air.  Swinging and sweeping on down the road.

Keep on truckin'
-Mike