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Emma Lee worked her way down a line of flat grave markers, bronze or granite or both laid flush with the ground. The day was wondrous, the bright sun tempered by a cool breeze, the air full of the smell of freshly cut grass.
Today, as she sometimes did, she was reading the inscriptions aloud. She read out the names of a collection of O’Connells, all of whom had died a half-century before. Three of them—a father and two young children, judging from the dates—had died on the same day. An accident? The fourth, probably the mother, had died less than a year later. Had she been in the accident, and just taken longer to die of her injuries? Had she died of grief? Had she taken her own life?
She paused, letting her thoughts settle, and stepped to the next stone in line.
“Emily Brown. June ….” She broke off. She felt strange, a pressure on her heart, a knot in her stomach.
“Emily Brown,” she repeated. Emily Brown.
Emma Lee Brown.
She knelt down and wiped a thin film of mud and cut grass off the marker. It was a simple bronze plaque on gray slate, letters and numerals in an old, serif font. No epitaph. Just a name and dates:
Emily Brown
June 26, 1942
June 28, 1961
She stood and searched the neighboring headstones. There were no other Browns nearby. She couldn’t remember having read out any Browns earlier, either; she was pretty sure she’d have noticed if she had. Maybe there would be more elsewhere in the cemetery, somewhere she hadn’t read out yet?
For now, though, it seemed Emily Brown was alone.
She returned to Emily’s headstone and sat on the cool grass. She stretched her sweatshirt sleeve over her wrist and wiped the plaque clean.
May and Emma Lee sat next to each other at the picnic table, in shorts and sandals and loose T-shirts, looking out over the cemetery. A funeral was in progress, a fairly small knot of people in dark suits and dresses, spread out around a mahogany coffin at the edge of a dug grave.
“So weird,” May said, breaking a long silence.
“What is?”
May nodded toward the funeral party. “I have no idea who died over there, but I still feel kind of sad.”
“Yeah,” Emma Lee agreed.
“I’ve been to, like, two funerals. One tried to make a big deal about being a celebration of life, but they were both just … sad.”
“I know,” Emma Lee said. “A better place, right?”
“I don’t think anyone really believes that shit. I mean, they talk a good game, but ….”
“Yeah.”
May turned and looked at her friend. “You okay?” she asked.
Emma Lee stared at her hands for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’m going to die soon.”
“What?” May’s eyes opened wide. “What are you talking about?”
Emma Lee shrugged. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“For fuck’s sake, Emma!” May said. “You don’t say, ‘I think I’m going to die,’ and then say it’s nothing! What the fuck?”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just….” Her voice trailed off. “You’re going to laugh,” she said.
“I do not feel like laughing right now,” May said, and waited—not patiently, but silently.
Finally, Emma Lee said: “I was walking in the cemetery yesterday.”
“So far, so normal,” May commented.
“I found a grave with my name on it.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” she said. She swiped her phone and pressed at the screen. “And she died on my birthday.”
“Okay, that’s weird,” May said.
Emma Lee set the phone on the table and slid it across.
May looked down at the picture of Emily’s grave. “That’s not your name,” she said.
“Well, it is, kind of. Listen: Emily. Emma Lee. They’re homophones.”
“Homowhats?”
“Homophones. Words that sound the same. They’re, there, and their. It’s and its. Emily and Emma Lee.”
“First of all, they don’t sound the same. E-mily. Emma Lee.”
“Emily, Emma Lee. It’s pretty much the same.”
“And anyway, your first name’s Emma, not Emily,” May continued. “Emily probably had her own middle name.”
“There’s no middle name on the headstone,” Emma Lee said. “But anyway, my name is Emma Lee.”
“Your name’s Emma. No one calls you Emma Lee.”
“No one in California calls me Emma Lee. That’s just because teachers called me Emma and I got tired of correcting them. My parents call me Emma Lee. Everyone back home calls me Emma Lee.”
“And anyway, those homothings sound the same, but they don’t mean the same thing, right? Emily means ‘dead girl.’ Emma Lee means ‘girl talking crazy shit.’”
“But she died on my birthday!”
May looked down at the phone. She tapped and swiped to get back to the picture, zoomed in. She frowned. “You weren’t born in 1961.”
“Obviously.”
“So it’s not your birthday.”
“June 28 is my birthday!”
“But not 1961! You were born in …” She broke off, face crinkled in thought. “Don’t make me do math. 2000?”
“2001,” Emma Lee corrected.
“Whatever,” May said. “She didn’t die on your birthday. You weren’t born yet! If anything, you were born on her death day.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” Emma Lee said.
“Whatever,” May repeated. “I mean, sure, a couple weird coincidences here. But I don’t get why you’re saying you’re going to die.”
“She died two days after her nineteenth birthday.”
May just looked at her.
“June 26, 1942, to June 28, 1961,” Emma Lee said, pointing at the phone. “Nineteen years and two days.”
May gave her best I’m not following expression.
“She has my name. She lived here—she must have, right, since they buried her here? She died on my birthday, two days after she turned nineteen.” She shrugged. “I turn nineteen next year. It just feels like there’s a … connection.”
May pushed the phone back toward Emma Lee and turned to watch as the funeral party began to break up.
“I didn’t know you want to be called Emma Lee,” May said.
Emma Lee shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“I’ve never really liked May much,” May said.
“Your name’s not May?”
“Mayumi,” she said.
“That doesn’t even sound like May.”
“White folk.”
“Mayumi,” Emma Lee said.
“Emma Lee,” Mayumi said.
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Story by Greg Kemble. Art and animation by John David Irvine (thejohnirvine.com).
In addition to reading the series on the blog, you can enjoy “Emily’s Grave” in a few other formats (you’ll find links to all of these versions at the Emily’s Grave (a story) page):
- Videobook (YouTube) – I commissioned my friend and former student John David Irvine—now an award-winning animator—to create an atmospheric animation to accompany the audio version of the story.
- Audiobook (mp3) – Recorded by the author (that’s me!). You can listen to it on the blog or download it.
- Print version (PDF) – If you prefer to read written text, you can view or download a PDF version.
Tip Jar – Pay what you like, if you like.
A-and there’s merch! If you like John’s cover art, check out the shirts, coffee mugs, stickers (and more!) at Redbubble.
About the author (that’s me!)
Close-to-retirement English prof.
Occasional musician, blogger, and writer.
Mildly Introverted, mostly harmless.
About the artist
Multi award-winning artist/animator/filmmaker John David Irvine is known for his unique style of handcrafted animation and darkly surreal imagery. His cryptic work explores identity, queerness, and generational trauma, wading into the everyday horrors that undulate beneath the veneer of the mundane. His award-winning short film COMMON MONSTERS is currently being expanded into his feature film directorial debut.
Check him out at https://thejohnirvine.com.
“Emily’s Grave” © 2021 (text) and © 2023 (audio and video) by Greg Kemble are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0