Three years to live. That’s what the doc told me back before COVID had taken its first life and lung cancer was still the hot diagnosis to—uh—take your breath away. Three years was optimistic though. An ashtray half-full kinda thing, but here I am. Still breathing. Still digging graves. And still flicking butts into six foot holes.

I wheeze more now. And I breathe quicker. But the latter has more to do with the gleeful boy than the cancer. Last April is when I started digging graves at St. Margaret’s and almost immediately, he showed up.

St. Margaret’s is small. Its graveyard is overgrown. And two feet into digging a hole, I almost missed the gleeful boy sneaking around the headstones. He peered out from behind the pediment of a granite obelisk and I saw the glee in his eyes. Utter joy and a stare like a goddamn power drill.

“Hello? Can I help you with something?” I called. No answer. He just titled his head further and pursed his lips like he was whistling. It freaked me right out.

The next time I saw him, I was three feet down. It was raining and I was ready to pack up when I noticed the glint of something shiny nearby. I walked over and found a tarnished silver tea set sitting on the ground and then I saw him. He pantomimed a coy giggle and then disappeared behind a family plot.

Then there was the seal.

I hadn’t seen the gleeful boy in a while, and his wheelbarrow didn’t make a sound, so the seal was…unexpected. I was working on a root, and he dumped the fucking thing in the grave with me—fat fucking seal that looked like it had gotten snuggly with a boat propeller. Blood and blubber oozed, I shrieked thinly, and the boy just smiled wide, down from above. He was missing a tooth that day. I later found it lodged in the seal—a gold one.

Which brings me to today, I guess. I was almost done with a fresh plot and I saw a shadow darken the dirt in front of me. A part of me knew it was him. He was always quiet, but he had an odor to him—something thick and sterile, like rubbing alcohol and bleach. When I turned, I saw his silhouette, back lit by morning sun and holding something.

He leaned down, knees locked, bending at the waist until his hands were dangling by his feet. And then he dropped it into the grave with me—a slice of cake that hit the soil with a stale thwack like a chunk of falling drywall. The cake had three candles driven into it. I had a lighter. The boy stared, nodding expectantly.

I obliged him and lit them. Then I blew. Or was it a wheeze? I tried again and collapsed from the effort. My vision darkened. Another long wheeze. Then, I thought of the date. March 23rd.

Three years already… Huh.