cats or get the fuck out

The first time it happened was in April, when she was still fifteen. Sigrid had walked around the cemetery a few times, as was her custom, and had straightened some of the pieces of wood used as markings for the graves, put some flowers in the vases that were missing them, vases that looked like they had not held flowers in them for a very long time. Hyacinths were some of her favorites to bring to the cemetery but she could not always find them. When she did, it was usually in some old lady’s garden or in some farmer’s field, likely planted by the wife to have her own little beautiful piece of land, and she had to climb over the fence, and quick and silent as a cat she would pick one or two from the most hidden places, so that no one would notice, and then, as silent as she had climbed into the garden or sneaked into the field, would leave, holding them tight, in fear that the wind might take them away as easily as she had stolen them. This time, she had not found any hyacinths and had to settle for some poppies she found alongside her path. She did not mind, as they were pretty flowers and they reminded her of her mother, but she knew that poppies wilt fast, sometimes it felt as if they wilted as fast as she blinked, but they had to do, at least until the next day, when she would come back. She was shielding them from the howling wind with her hands, afraid that it would blow the petals away and went into the cemetery. The cemetery was beautiful, at least to her, and she went there at least once a day. No one she knew was buried there, her family was too poor and superstitious to be buried in a cemetery, and they usually asked to be buried in the woods, for reasons unknown to her. Her mother used to tell her that “cemeteries are prisons for the souls”, but she did not understand it or believe in it, but she knew that when her time would come, she too would go back to the earth in the woods and not in a cemetery. Nonetheless, she felt like it was her purpose, or duty, to go to the cemetery and honor those that had passed away. That day she went there after the sun had set down, she had to sneak out of the house close to midnight, as her mother did not want her to go so often to it, and after she had left flowers on the oldest and forgotten tombs, and cleaned around, she sat down on some of the steps that led to the older, lower, part of the cemetery. She brushed back her hair, but the wind kept blowing it in her face.It was cold and she was shivering, despite the wool coat her mother had made her. It was then that she heard her.

“Are you lost?” she asked. It sounded like a little girl.

She turned around and saw a little child, around seven years of age, dressed in a beautiful red dress, a dress Sigrid couldn’t even ever dream of owning.

“No”, she replied and after some thinking she asked “Are you? Where’s your mother? Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know” her eyes were filling up with tears, “can you help me find her? I want to go home” at that point her lips started quivering.

“Did you come here with her?”

“ I don’t know” she started crying and soon after she started sobbing.

She looked at her little red face, her dark hair, braided and wondered what such a little frail thing was doing outside this late at night.

“Do you live near here?” Sigrid started thinking that her face looked familiar, but she had no idea if she had seen her around the village, especially because her dress looked rich, something that no one in her village would have ever been able to buy, unless they sold all of their cattle or their property, and even then, they would be able to afford only a sleeve.

“No… I want my mother, I want to go home” she was shaking like a leaf and she was hugging herself, but she was getting hysterical.

Sigrid went up to her and kneeled in front of her. There was something about her that didn’t look quite right, maybe the tone of her skin or the way her hair was braided, not a single hair out of place. And suddenly Sigrid was able to place her face, to understand where she had seen her. Her dress, she realized now, looked a little out of style, and her hair was not braided in a casual way, but in the way that was customary for funerals, among the nobility. Not for those attending the funeral, but for the ones that were being buried. Sigrid did not know how to tell her what she started to suspect. She did not even know if she actually believed it. She had seen her wandering the cemetery sometimes, but always for a fraction of a second, enough to brush off the impression it left on her as a mistake, a gust of wind carrying some leaves that for a moment looked like a kid wandering around. But this time, that trick of the eye she had always attributed to tiredness, was talking to her.

Sigrid did not know if she could touch her, if her hand would go through her as if she was not truly there (was she actually?) or if it would be able to touch her, to feel the coldness of her skin. She did not know what would be worse. She extended her hand towards her face and was able to wipe away her tears, and while she could feel her skin, dry and cold, like marble, it felt as if she was not completely there, as if Sigrid had been a little rougher with her hands she could have gone easily through her face. The tears left the kid’s face, but did not wet Sigrid’s hands, as if she had never even touched them.

“What’s your name dear?”

“Edme” she said sniffling.

“How old are you?” she looked even younger now, crying and hugging herself.

“10.. I think” she looked way younger than what she was, and Sigrid noticed that she was skinny, skinnier than a healthy child should be, making her look younger and making Sigrid’s stomach twist in her belly. Edme looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. Sigrid felt something crushing her heart.

“Edme, for how long have you been here?”

“I don’t know” she wiped her nose with her beautiful ornate sleeve, “but for so long I can’t even remember when I got here”.

Sigrid did not know what to do. How do you tell someone they’re dead? How do you tell a child she is not to see her mother ever again? How do you tell a child she has never had a chance at life and she will never have it? She took a deep breath and trembling she took her hand. Edme looked like she wanted to pull it back, not wanting to hold a stranger’s hand, but at the same time she looked like she needed comfort, no matter who it was coming from.

“Love, I am going to tell you something, but I don’t think you’ll like it”

“I am dead, am I?” she looked at her with eyes that betrayed both her knowledge of her situation, but also a glimpse of hope that Sigrid would tell her that she had just been lost for a few days, and that she would take her home to her family, and that everything would be fine after all.