We laid together, my brother and I, here in this grave with one marker since 1863 when a barrage of cannon fire took our Union lives.
The headstone reads Seth Brown but my name was Sam. Seth took our last breath at the age of 22 while I took my final breath after 2 days of living. An alter ego along for the ride. A twin never celebrated like Seth was after death.
The grand centennial events of long ago had become a tiny flag stuck in the ground among a sea of them. Seth doesn’t see it like I do for some haunting reason. Since 1863 I’ve lied here watching grieving families place flowers and cry. Not for Seth.
Three boys that I saw here before breaking headstones were laughing and approaching after breaking into cars. Good boys with long rap sheets and reduced punishments by a compassionate judge though I did not know that.
This night they chose Seth’s headstone and smashed it into rubble releasing me from my prison walls of earth and flesh for the first time since 1843.
“You like to break things,” I said.
“It’s not your business,” one said pulling a pistol as the others encircled me for a beating. That I was seen confused me.
“Give us your cash or die,” said the trigger, thrusting the gun at me.
“Die?” I wondered how and grabbed at the gun. My hand went through it as it fired several times. The shots echoed, the gun was tossed and the shooter ran into the darkness. The twin sons of a city council member were found dead.
There for centuries in spirit only, by dawn I dissipated like the fog and was haunted no more.
