Growing older always seemed like someone else's problem, but it is slowly becoming mine. I miss being a child. I miss being excited about the small stuff. I miss running around my house in my pajamas while my dad put up the Christmas lights. I miss trick-or-treating and being yelled at for acting like the kid that I was. I miss those days, but I can never get them back. Ever. I've changed.
The world has changed. And no matter how much I plead with the universe, I can never reverse time. Most people my age wish to win the lottery, but I would give every penny I have just to go back to five years ago.
Five years ago, most people called me Gia. But not G-eye-ah. I hate it when people call me that, and I know they can't help it because how would they know how to say my name if they don't know me? But it still makes me angry. My name is Gia, like Gee-yah—the short version of my ridiculously unconventional name—Nostalgia. To this day, I'm still not sure why, but my cousin Sonya named me that. She was fourteen years old at the time, and my mom didn't know what to call me, so she was all like, "Sonya, you pick a name. Whatever name you want, the first name that comes to mind," and then an old song played on the radio, this one really popular song from the 80's, and then without thinking, Sonya said, "I feel nostalgic!" and then that was that. Mom was inspired, and Nostalgia became my name.
When I was born, my mom couldn't stop crying. At least, that's what she used to tell me. I was small and fragile, and because my mom was nineteen when she gave birth to me, she didn't really know what to do with me. But despite that, she still somehow managed to do a pretty good job at raising me to believe I could do anything I wanted to do.
Little did she know that the only thing I would want to do is bring her back.
Even though it's not possible, it still brings comfort just to fool myself for a bit. Even if it's just for a second, a tiny fragment of time, it still feels like there's a chance of possibility in my words.
It's a Saturday night, the best night of the week, and people say that since I'm seventeen and life is just now beginning for me, I should be out partying with friends or doing things older and more mature people tell me I'm not supposed to do, but instead, I have chosen to spend my night at Yermen Cemetery.
I put roses down next to the spot where my mom is—just six feet below, and then I lay my blanket and pillow down next to her tombstone. I curl up into a ball and then just lay there for a bit, watching the purple clouds move slowly over a black sky, and while I'm looking up, it feels like someone is looking back at me. I close my eyes as the wind blows my hair back, and then I hear dead leaves crunch beside my ear.
"Here again, huh?"
I look up. It's Mr. Yermen. He's the owner of the cemetery. Has been for the past twenty or so years, but every day he treats the place like it's his first day. His philosophy is that if you treat each day like it's your first, you'll never feel old.
Mr. Yermen is wearing black biker boots that the boys in my class wear. He says they make him feel young, but I think he looks silly. The boots sink into the dirt as he begins raking the leaves beside my feet, but I pretend not to be bothered by it. I don't dare to look away from the sky.
"You're not tired of me, are you?" I ask.
He rubs his beard, "worried."
"I told you not to worry about me."
"It's what I do," he says.
"Keep worrying like that and you'll hurt yourself, Mr. Yermen," I say.
Mr. Yermen stops moving. He places the rake down gently in the grass and sits beside me. Close enough that I can smell the old leaves that have stuck to the bottom of his boots, but far enough that I can't see his eyes through his tinted glasses. He shakes his head.
"Where are your friends?"
I place my hands behind my head, "where are yours?"
"I'm an old man Nos, my friends don't stay together the way kids your age do."
Mr. Yermen is the only person who calls me Nos. He says the name fits me better, but I think it's because he's just too lazy to call me Nostalgia.
"You aren't that old," I say.
"Old enough," he says back.
"Not in my eyes."
"Nos—" he says, and then he pauses, shaking his head, "what are you here for?"
"Same reason you're here, Mr. Yermen," I say, "I like to be here."
"No you don't," he says, crossing his arms, "what's the real reason?"
"That is the real reason."
"How long has it been?"
"Seven years this May."
"Most people stop visiting after a few months."
"Well, I'm not most people," I say.
"I wonder if it's healthy..."
"I'm fine, Mr. Yermen. You don't have to worry about me."
"Where's your father? I'll call him."
I sit up, "No, don't do that. He'll kill me if he finds out I'm here."
"Then maybe you shouldn't be here, Nos."
I sigh and then fold up my blanket. Slowly, carefully, making sure that my lips fall into the perfect pout. Just enough so that Mr. Yermen feels bad for me and lets me stay.
He pulls at his beard and stands up.
"You can stay till 10, Nos. But that's it."
"11?"
He narrows his eyes.
"10."
"Okay," I say, and then I unfold my blanket and lay back down.
"10. I mean it, Nos," Mr. Yermen says again, "If I come out here and see you sleeping again—"
"I'll be out by 10," I say, smiling, "I promise."
Mr. Yermen shakes his head once more and then starts toward the customer service building at the opposite end of the cemetery. An hour passes, but Mr. Yermen never comes back to check on me. I fall asleep under the stars, and when I wake up, it's 12:00am.
The light in the customer service building is off now, which means that Mr. Yermen has gone back home, which means that I am the only living person left at this cemetery. I fold my blanket up, this time with the intention of actually leaving. Just as I zip up my backpack, rain starts to fall. It starts off slow, but then quickly comes pouring down hard and fast. It's the type of rain that most people run away from, even the ones who claim to like the rain.
I use my backpack as a shield and run to the customer service building. By the time I get there, my gym shoes are coated with a layer of mud. Water is pouring from the shingles, and there's only a couple inches of roof that I'm able to hide under. I stay there, hoping that the downpour will be quick, but it goes on for a while.
I check my watch, seeing that it is now twenty minutes after twelve, and then I hear the sounds of crunching leaves.
I look up. There's no one around. Nothing to see except for trees being overtaken by rain. But then I see something else—a running shadow making its way through the cemetery entrance. It runs through the darkness, so fast that I can't make out a face, just the outline of a body. My mind tells me to pretend I never saw it, but my heart tells me to follow whatever it is that i've seen, and so I run.
I run and I keep running, and every once in a while, I hide behind the tombstone of a stranger, and then I hear another noise.
Panting. A lot of panting. I squint my eyes, and in the darkness, I see a boy holding a shovel. He pauses for a moment, standing completely still, and then he sticks the shovel deep into the mud and begins to dig up a grave.
I freeze, watching as he sticks the shovel deeper, and deeper into the ground, bringing up more dirt with every push of the shovel. I look around. Nobody is seeing this but me, and I wonder—what should I do? Stay where I am? Call the police?
I reach into my pocket to dial 911, but I don't feel my phone. More time passes, and I continue to watch as the boy digs a hole deep enough for him to be able to stand in. He keeps digging, furiously tossing the dirt out of the grave. Then, just as the rain stops, he tosses the shovel away, and reaches into his bag, pulling out a shiny gold necklace.
A few minutes later, I hear him sobbing. It's the kind of cry I would expect from someone who just had a twelve-inch sword pushed through their chest—and it only gets louder, and louder, and louder, until I can't take it anymore.
I walk over to the grave and stand over the opening. I look down and my heart stops. The boy is cradling a girl in his arms. She has black hair and a familiar birthmark just above her left eye, one that is eerily similar to my own.
I walk up closer so that I can see the name on the tombstone.
It reads:
Nostalgia Jay Flores 1993-2010.
155Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5AhSJ59s6L
