Jadel Andreetto – 7 IRON, a Cemetery Tale

I was told this is one of the largest cemeteries in the world. A huge, green plain with white tombstones.

A light breeze blows constantly through the grass of the vast lawn.

Just over a month ago, my parents asked grandpa if I could stay with him while they went on a trip around the world.

I was frightened by the idea of spending the whole summer in a cemetery, even with my grandfather, who, ever since I was a kid, has been a special guy, a really funny one.

My parents would never admit it, but they are ashamed of his job as a guardian and an undertaker. They always thought his life choice was due to some extravagance.

The old man is undoubtedly eccentric and has an untamed vital energy, but now that I know the place where he lives, I am not too surprised about his choice. Everything is green and quiet here, there’s nothing gloomy or sad about it, and the house that the municipality gave him is very nice. It looks like a chalet and my grandfather’s girlfriend has put geraniums on their balcony to give it a heartwarming touch of color.

I learned to sleep with the window open at night so the wind would lull me. Whenever I look outside, I see a green sea waving around small white rocks.

My grandfather uses one of those little carts they use for golf courses so he can move around his gigantic garden and do his job.

Whenever he needs to take care of the lawn or the trees or has any other maintenance work to do or someone to bury, he drives that sort of cart, which reminds me of a bumper car.

Yesterday he came out of his shed with a bag full of spades and shovels of different sizes, jumped into the cart and asked me jokingly if I wanted to dig a grave for a newcomer with him.

He did not need to add a word: I immediately jumped onboard and went with him.

It took us almost twenty minutes to get to our destination. The sun was high and surrounded by a clear sky and streaks of docile clouds.

This is the best holiday I have ever had, I thought.

When we arrived, the funeral procession was not yet to be seen; my grandfather probed the ground, lifted up his eyes with a hand on his forehead to protect them from the sun, then looked at me and smiled under his mustache.

The bag full of shovels looked like a bag of golf clubs.

“Hang me the 7 iron, son.”