by John Marsden
There’s always a flower or two on the grave though. Every time anyone goes for a walk they bring one back and stick it there. The problem then is to keep our last lamb from eating it.
It makes me wonder if the Hermit’s body is here somewhere in Hell too. It’d be funny if they were both here, because I think they were probably alike in some ways.
Anyway, that’s not the illogical part. The illogical part is the way I feel about it all. About Chris. I miss him and I feel terrible that he died like that and it seems so unfair and such a waste. But I feel other things too, guilt especially. Guilt that we left him on his own, that we didn’t try harder. When he was in one of his moods we usually gave up and didn’t make an effort to humour him out of it. I think we should have done more. And I feel angry, angry at him. Angry that he was so weak and didn’t try harder. Angry that he was such a genius but didn’t do enough with it.
Sometimes you just have to be brave. You have to be strong. Sometimes you just can’t give in to weak thoughts. You have to beat down those devils that get inside your head and try to make you panic. You struggle along, putting one foot a little bit ahead of the other, hoping that when you go backwards it won’t be too far backwards, so that when you start going forwards again you won’t have too much to catch up.
That’s what I’ve learned.
There’s a rustle in the grass to the left of my tent. Some little night creature, probably hoping to raid our food. Same as us, I think, searching around the countryside, trying to avoid the predators, just finding enough to keep ourselves going. I can hear Homer snoring, Fi calling out in her sleep, Lee wriggling into a new position, Robyn breathing steadily. I love these four people. And that’s why I feel bad about Chris. I didn’t love him enough.
They will carry me to the field
Through the wreaths of mist
Moist on my face,
And the lamb will pause
For a thoughtful stare.
The soldiers, they will come.
They will lay me in the dark cold earth
And push the clods in upon my face.
