I WAS TREMBLING, BUT not from the sheets of rain that pounded down on me. I wasn't cold either; I was in South Carolina now, and even during seasons in which my home state of New York was plagued with snow this state still was as hot as ever. No, it was for reasons other than nature that I could barely hold the bouquet of flowers in my hand. It was because the grave in front of me was that of my dead lover.
Up until now I had pretty much denied the fact of his death, for me or for him I knew not. I just kept telling myself it was a mistake, that any day now I would receive a letter from him in the mail telling me he was well and that this had all been a miscommunication on his men's part. But every day I waited was another twenty-four hours in which my hands remained empty of any word from him, and to see his grave in front of me now was almost like a shock to my senses. After a month or so of denial, to see actual confirmation that he was no longer alive—that he was no longer breathing, that the Redcoat's bullet had truly found their target—made my knees be close to buckling and my body shake.
Even if his death had not been one he deserved, I expected his grave to be of such. Maybe like a pyramid of stone, tall and cold, just like he had been, but warm on the inside, where it was unguarded and free, with praises etched into the sides. I expected there to be words carved into stone telling the world of his good deeds, of how he was an amazing aide-de-camp to General George Washington, excellent at being kind to those who deserved it and vengeful to those who did not, and an even better soldier. I thought there would be some type of memorial for him at the very least for his service, but what was in front of me now felt like mockery. It was a headstone unlike any other, tiny and of a pearly white. Etched into it were the words: Sacred to the memory of John Laurens, son of Henry and Eleanor Laurens, born 28th October, 1754, died 27th August, 1782.
I wanted to laugh at it, to call it meager and small, to yell at someone and ask if that was what they thought of his death, that it had no purpose and the only thing it did was waste people's time with a funeral. I wanted to call the grave that crouched in the dirt in front of me tiny and undeserving of the name it so casually bore in its stone. But there was one more thing they had dared to write, one thing that made me hate it more than anything else. It was the words in Latin, the words, Dulce el decorum est pro palrim mori, which loosely translated to, It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.
It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. At that I wanted to kick up a fit. It was not sweet and fitting to die for one's country; it was horrible and cruel. He did not deserve to leave the face of the Earth this way, in such a meaningless manner. He did not deserve to have been stripped bare of his uniform and any other valuables by the men he had been serving under at the time of his perish. He did not deserve to have a bullet pierce his heart, and that wasn't even mentioning the other wounds he'd received in previous battles. He was too great a man to die in such a way—he was too great a man to die at all.
Whoever said war is glorious is a lying fool.
I scoffed at myself. I hated how I continued to use the word he in place of what I had said over and over, how I couldn't even bring myself to say his name. I was acting cowardly, wasn't I? It was just a name.
No, I was wrong about that. It wasn't just a name—it was the name of my lover. It was the name of a man who was imperfect but perfect at the same time. It was the name of a man that was honorable and strong and beautiful. It was the name of a man who had affected the lives of hundreds—thousands—before his untimely death.
It was the name of a man who was also in the ground.
Finally gaining some type of strength, I took the bouquet of flowers —in which were flowers that he'd drawn as an adolescent—and placed it on his grave. I had planned to leave right after, to not let him bear witness to my tears, but even as the flowers left my fingertips I couldn't find it in myself to move. I just stayed there, crouching in front of his grave, waiting for something—anything—to happen. "Please," I whispered to no one—or possibly to John himself—"do something."
All I was met with was the sound of the rushing wind and sheets of rain.
I chuckled at myself. I was being foolish. What was I expecting to happen? That the ghost of my deceased lover would spring forth from his grave and embrace me? That the same ghost would tell me that it would all be all right? That it would be John walking down the fields of Mepkin and picking rice and not a slave?
I chuckled again at my stupidity before I got an idea. I kissed my pointer and middle finger. Slowly, I placed the two fingers pressed tight to his name—John—the same name I had breathed into his ear, the same name I had said over and over in both personal and professional capacities, the same name I had sighed—no, moaned—during long nights in which we were both stripped bare and shared intimacies that friends would reserve for lovers. It was a pitiful attempt to show him that my love for him had not faded away, had not been stuffed deep down as his body had been under tightly packed earth, but it was the only thing I could think of, and it gave me some type of release.
Slowly, I stood up and walked away, my mind bustling with the prospect I had put before myself a month or so earlier. Maybe the war still raged, maybe the war had not ended at all, maybe the fight in me had not ceased even after the British had been drained from this country like a leech, but I knew there was no way I was going to surrender now.