A Slow Walk on Christmas Day
by Zvi A. Sesling
I
met Rebecca at a Zoom poetry reading around the week before Christmas when we were
both busy with our teaching schedules. I had classes to teach at the university,
and she had classes to teach at a middle school. Nonetheless, we agreed to meet
on Christmas Day at the Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge where so many famous
people are buried.
We
met at the Mt. Auburn Street entrance and began a slow walk through the cement
paths in the cemetery.
I said, “Longfellow is actually my favorite
poet. He helped form the heritage of America with the Paul Revere and Hiawatha
poems.”
“You
realize, of course, that is male blabber which excludes the contributions of
women and, I might add, African-American and Chinese contributions, not to
mention the Italians, Spanish, Jews and even Native Americans,” Rebecca said.
“No
matter, Longfellow is still one of the greatest poets of our country, right up
there with Whitman and others,” I countered.
“Males,” she exclaimed bitterly,
“What about the great female writers?”
I
didn’t answer, so she snorted through her nose. We walked a while in angered
silence looking at the fallen leaves all a dead brown, a few crinkled red ones
among them. We looked at other leaves that had either fallen or been blown and
covered grave after grave.
Some
of the gravestones were readable, others not. There were some other people walking
through the cemetery as well. A few were alone, others in pairs or in
groups. There were even more visitors on
a walking tour led by a docent.
When
we got to Longfellow’s grave, I reverently bowed my head and mumbled a few
words in his honor.
Rebecca started to say
something critical of my hero, but I told her to not continue, and we should
leave, but she continued, saying Longfellow was a chauvinist fool and his
poetry was too smarmy.
I felt my blood boil, my face became red, and
I grabbed the scarf she was wearing despite the unseasonably warm weather,
looked around and seeing no one, proceeded to tighten it around her throat and
neck. Her face was one of surprise, then fright, and finally panic. She tried
to scream, but only a gurgle exited her mouth. She tried to struggle but
couldn’t; it was too late. Her lips had turned blue. Her hands at first tried
to grab mine but fell by her side. She slid slowly down to the ground and after
I was sure her life was extinguished, I rolled her body face down on
Longfellow’s grave. I was sure he’d appreciate my effort. Then I took the scarf
and left through a different gate from which we had entered.
Arriving
home I lit a fire and burned the scarf. When the flames had subsided, I put in
some more wood, mixed the ashes, lit the new wood, and then had dinner while
listening to an audio recording of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.
Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has
published numerous poems and flash/micro fiction and won international prizes.
A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he has published four volumes and three
chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind the Gate.
He lives in Brookline, MA. with his wife Susan J. Dechter.
