CEMETERY DAY/NIGHT

This prison of past lives sits nestled on the corner of the street, although the prison is unlike any other. The people that retire eternally here aren’t because of legal reasons, wrongful crimes, or for robbing the bank dressed in a black ski mask. They are exiled here due to a power much higher than themselves. Death. Maybe it was a wrong turn on a frigid ice road, a run-in with fate, or for most, the finite time had just frankly caught up with them. Either way, it inevitably happens to everyone and many subsequently come to this place as a final destination.

Boats and swimmers of all shapes and sizes flock towards Wanaka’s main interest on a warm day. The notorious lake. Observing these vast waters from afar and surrounding the prison are emerald trees as high as maximum security gates, embellished in minuscule acorns that descend to the ground according to the seasons. The ground is the centre of attraction, or more so, six feet below it. Stubby blades of green carpet the floor, adding a sliver of colour and liveliness to the predominantly dull space. Beneath the nourished dirt is home to the resting jailbirds. They recline in utter quiet, with their cells being just big enough to fit an average human. Not a blink of light or noise is captured inside their surrounding four snug walls.

Rows and rows of carved stones are wedged into the grass, decaying slowly like teeth. The especially ancient covered in patchy lichen. With a texture as rough as bark on the trees, most usually display a dead tone of grey. The fortunate ones are dressed up in decorative ornaments and floral arrangements. Engraved into these stones is a tender summary into the now passed over souls submerged beneath visitor’s feet. Amongst the cerulean skies, a peeping sun shines against the glass trinkets, creating a disco ball-like effect. The rays provide a soothing but not sweltering aspect of heat against the lonesome Gardner’s back as he attends to his daily demands. Severing and pruning weeds with such concentration it’s as if he’s an A-list celebrity’s hairdresser.

Midst stopping at or passing the prison you become intoxicated by the course aroma of pine, accompanied by a candy-coated scent from flowers of all kinds. Flowers left here by the alive company of loved ones coming to say hello, although prisoners never respond. The majority visiting shed a salted tear or two, realising they’ll never see him or her again. A neutral breeze sweeps throughout the air like a less-greedy seagull, evaporating the tears streaming down cheeks. Echoing in my eardrums is the audible crinkle of petals and leaves created by a steady gust, occasionally halting still.

As I drowsily wander through my usual routine home, feet fighting against gravity with each scuff, my limited attention remaining is drawn to the cemetery beside me. The atmosphere’s clock is beginning to wind up to its own bedtime, portraying a cast of murky charcoal to everything below its gaze. At this moment is when the cemetery begins to breathe life. A rush of blood and oxygen is pumped through the area, generating an awakening. Once green, sappy pines now appear as sharp silhouettes against the velvet black blanket of sky, leaving me feeling like the size of a grain of sand underneath. Miniature and defenseless. Overhead the moon radiates down, constructing a spotlight as if it’s a concert arena. A sense of security persists ingrained into my mind by the warm, yellow glow pooling onto the footpath from streetlights. Illuminating just enough shape and colour for eyes to distinguish a path with the ability for my feet to tread on autopilot.

Absolute eery silence is carried throughout the wafting mist, aside from the shout of an owl’s squawk heard from a distance every four minutes. Perhaps it’s their inconsistent way of talking to each other. I figure it would be hard to keep a conversation with an owl. Any existing smell becomes masked by the crisp air infiltrating my nostrils. All life is dormant, only the nocturnal souls entombed underground remain. They dance and frolic until dawn. You’re unable to see them with the human eye, therefore, the area is visualised as lonely and desolate. All is still. Everything is at peace.