Winter Greens

He spat; his mouth was dry, and so what had started with the intention of being a phlegm-soaked splatter ended as a frothy dollop. It broke the plane of his lips, parched with fatigue and bitterness, and flew a cresting arc through the air, while his fists stretched the lining of his beige coat pockets to the point of breaking.

The name on the grave was J. Palmer Epperson, Jr., and the ball of spit landed exactly three feet south of the period at the end of ‘junior,’ directly above the left elbow of the man buried six feet underneath the soil. The rest of the rough stone read “1945-2003. Loving Husband and Father.”

The inscription on the beige jacket above the left breast pocket read, “James P. Epperson III.” He wore a matching set of beige pants, and a standard issue Navy hat.

He stood for a while above the final resting place of his father, his body shaking with rage and regret, alone under a cloud-streaked sky. It was mid-winter, and though no snow had fallen yet that year, the breeze carried with it the scent of wood burning stoves and a coming frost.

James shivered when the wind picked up, and pulled his coat tight around his neck and shoulders. He looked up at the threatening heavens as a hawk flew overhead, low enough to make out the rusty coloration on its tail feathers. The vaguest hint of a smile crossed his lips as he followed the hawk with his eyes until it dove behind a cluster of trees in the distance. James folded his legs underneath him and sat, propping his back against the side of his father’s headstone, and pulled a knife from his utility belt and began to whittle away at twigs he found on the ground around him. The grounds of the cemetery were well kept, and he quickly ran out of fodder for his blade, and returned it to his pocket and closed his eyes.

When he reopened them his field of vision was blocked by the scrawny legs of a young woman. The black stockings cascading down her calves were torn in numerous places, even down to her feet where toes stuck out haphazardly where shoes should have been. She wore a gray skirt and a navy blue hoodie draped over her shoulders; her fingers played with the zipper.

“How long have you been watching me?” James demanded, blinking his eyes and checking himself over.

“Long enough to know this is your daddy’s grave. Were you close?” Her leg shifted, pivoting on the ball of her foot, school-girl like.

“No,” James said, standing up and brushing himself off. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Raven. I live up yonder,” she nodded her head in the direction of the hill behind the cemetery. No dwelling was visible, just a patch of trees and tall grass like a mohawk on the crest of the ridge.

“I was just leaving,” James grunted, brushing past her.

“You didn’t leave no flowers or a note or nothing,” she called after him as he walked away.

“I didn’t intend to,” he spat over his shoulder.

“It ain’t right to disrespect the dead like that. You got to pay your respects, or it’ll haunt you.”

James stopped, spinning on his heals and pointing to his name tag, “He already does. I’m wearing his fucking name on my chest.”

“That ain’t all though, is it? He’s got inside you, ain’t he? And you can’t escape it, can you? I’ve seen your type.” She held her hands on her indistinguishable hips.

James stared her down for a minute, taken aback at her piercing appraisal. A hawk’s cry was audible, and the skies deepened and sleet began to pelt down like bullets.

“I went to war for him,” James called out above the din of the water and ice striking dead leaves and headstones.

“He died when you were away?” came her answer. She stood less than ten yards from him, but was barely visible with the haze interloping between them.

“Took his own life the day I shipped out,” he said, and turned away, covering his head with his jacket as he dashed for the edge of the cemetery. A hawk cried out in the downpour as it flew overhead, dodging marble-sized chunks of freezing rain as it soared upward and into the storm.