“The Graves of Saint Paul”

On By Mike U.In Stories

“The Graves of Saint Paul”

© 2025 by Michael L. Utley

My mother lay in the ground at my feet beneath sun-bleached summer grass and faded plastic flowers and a headstone I hadn’t seen for nearly ten years. Her name, Victoria, clung to the gray stone above a bas-relief of pines and wild flowers and blue birds. She’d asked for a cross on her headstone—made it clear to everyone that she desired her faith to be front and center after she died—but my father, in his infinite malice and pettiness, had chosen some random wilderness picture rather than honor her wish. Just one more reason I hated him.

And now, his name sullied my mother’s headstone.

Ten years. Ten years of shame and regret. I hadn’t visited my mother since the headstone was erected shortly after her burial. For months after her death, I made excuses to avoid the trip to town, to the cemetery. At first, it was too raw, too soon. Maybe in a few weeks, a month or two, then I could do it. And then my life flipped upside-down again and I relocated out-of-state unexpectedly and that felt like a more legitimate reason, but I always intended to visit her grave like a good son should. Except…except maybe I wasn’t such a good son after all.

When my father died two years later, that settled the issue, and I knew I’d never be able to look at that headstone now that it was desecrated by his name.

David. Wife-beater. Monster.

And yet, here I was, standing at the foot of the grave that held my mother’s bones and my father’s ashes, the midday sun hidden behind a thick overcast sky, rivulets of sweat accumulating beneath my baseball cap and running down my back, the world almost completely silent in my deafness, the scent of grass clippings in the still air. Here they were, together again, this time for eternity. My mother could never escape my father in life, and in death he had finally ensnared her forever.

I stood there, motionless as the stones that rose from this small acreage of sorrow, my mind blank, my eyes dry (still no tears after all these years–what’s wrong with me?), and my dead heart buried in my chest. I don’t know how long I was lost in that moment—time flows differently in places of death; sometimes it doesn’t flow at all. Not knowing what else to do, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom…” and lowered my head. I couldn’t bear the thought of my mother witnessing my guilt-ridden face anymore.

A few moments later, I noticed an old fellow approaching, moving gingerly among rows of crosses not far from my parents’ plot. He wore dull green overalls and a sweat-stained cap, the name Pablo embroidered on the left side of his chest, grass-stained work gloves jammed in his pocket, the butt of a Marlboro between thin lips, eyes buried in a crevasse of wrinkles. He stood beside me for a long moment, studying my parents’ headstone, then glanced at me and spoke.

I motioned that I was deaf—a little finger-dance between my right ear and lips, and pulled a small tablet and pen from my pocket and mimed for him to write instead of speak. He smiled and nodded and wrote, “Your family?”

After a pause, “My parents.”

Another nod, and this time he scrawled, “Victoria is a beautiful name, amigo.”

I looked at him closely. He was old, perhaps my parents’ age (if they still lived), and I wondered why the town would allow a fellow who was obviously pushing his mid-80s to tend the cemetery.

As if reading my mind, the man wrote, “I come here every day. Tend the plots, cut a little grass, gather the broken flowers—the dead deserve better, yes?–and talk to my Maria.” He pointed a crooked finger toward a cluster of pines and crosses. His attention lingered there for a bit, then he looked at me, his expression indeterminate, as though he were in deep thought.

“Your father,” he wrote. “David. I knew him.”

A gust of wind kicked up a few plastic flowers from a nearby grave, scattering them across the walking path. The man took a drag on his cigarette and eyed me intensely, then put pen to paper.

“Yes, I knew your father. Ese malvado matón… That cruel bully…”

I felt a headache germinating inside my skull and closed my eyes. A memory—completely unbidden—flashed in my mind, startling in its vividness and urgency.

“Michael.” My father calling me. I am twelve years old. My father sits on the sofa, an old photo album spread open on his lap. It is early evening, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen, my sisters chattering at the table. Some random sitcom plays on the hulking console television, a comedy laugh track in the background. I go to my father, terrified. What have I done this time? I wonder. He is grinning. This frightens me even more. “Look here,” he says, pointing a grease-stained finger at an old black-and-white photograph. My father smells of diesel and sweat and cigarettes. I am wary of his every move. It is a school picture dated 1949. My father’s second-grade class photograph. A dozen children stand stiffly, awkwardly, at attention before a run-down one-room shack, an elderly woman with a severe expression hovering beside them. “That’s me, right there.” His dirty finger moves to a dark-haired, cowlicked boy in a soiled white t-shirt with a missing incisor on the left. On the television, a man is arguing with a woman about a dog. “Now, see this little Mexican kid here?” He points to a diminutive Latino boy huddling in a ball at the far right, a dull expression on his grainy round face. “I used to beat the hell out of that kid every day at school.” My father grins wider, shark-like, and laughs. On the television, canned applause explodes and a commercial break begins. I swallow. I stare at the small boy with tousled black hair and knee-patched trousers and striped shirt, and all I can say is, “What was his name?” And my father beams at me. “Who gives a shit?”

I began to speak, but the old man waved me off. “Ah…it was many years ago, do not worry,” he wrote. “Life is long and hard, and we learn much or we don’t learn anything. Who’s to say?”

“Pablo. Your name is Pablo…”

A nod, a flick of the pen. “Yes, little Pablo, el niño pequeño. I was small, but quick. And I survived.”

“My father tormented you, and all these years I wondered who you were, what your name was, and why.”

“Amigo,” he wrote, “sometimes there is no why. Sometimes, there are no answers. Sometimes we must endure until we can fight back or escape.” His eyes softened. “If you’re looking for logic or sense in this lifetime, you’re on a fool’s errand. Just live. Just let go and live.”

“I don’t think I can…”

The old man flipped the page over and scribbled, “Look out there at all these graves, all these lives. Years and decades and centuries, gone and forgotten. But not quite, for old Pablo remembers them, old Pablo cares for them. When we are remembered, we live, and when we are remembered fondly, we live gloriously! Your mother–” and the old man motioned toward her headstone, “she is not gone. She remains forever in your heart because you love her. And she knows this.” He looked at me firmly. “And no matter what your father has done, he will never change her love for you. Trust me on this, amigo. I am old and wise, although my Maria might disagree with the latter.” He winked.

I glanced again at my mother’s name. It looked beautiful on the headstone. I will remember you well, Mom, I said to myself. The old man penned one final note on the tablet then returned it to me, squeezed my shoulder, and headed back to his Maria beneath the pines.

Just live. Just let go and live.

…..

51 thoughts on ““The Graves of Saint Paul””

    1. Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your kind words. Sort of a milestone for me–it’s the first story I’ve completed since 1992. Nowadays, I write poetry pretty much exclusively with an odd essay or two here and there. Also, this is semi-autobiographical, so it was rather difficult to write.

      Anyway, thank you for your generous words, my friend. Wishing you a peaceful week ahead. 😊

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    1. Kindest thanks, Beth. This one was a little difficult to write as it’s semi-autobiographical. I haven’t completed a story in 33 years, so it feels like a bit of an accomplishment for me to have written this piece. I love writing poetry nowadays and do so almost exclusively, but man, how I’ve missed writing stories…

      I appreciate your wonderful support so much. Have a grand week ahead, my friend. 😊

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    1. Thank you kindly, Maggie. Yes, this is mostly autobiographical, although artistic license has been used to make it into a story. I’ve thought often of that little Latino boy my dad terrorized all the time in 2nd grade, and I wondered what it would be like if I ever met him in person… Hence, this story. Much of the rest was true. So yes, it was a bit difficult to write about this stuff, for sure.

      I appreciate your stopping by to leave such a warm and supportive comment, my friend. Sincerely grateful to you, Maggie. 😊

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  5. Oh my gosh, Mike, this story is so powerful, the more so for being semi-autobiographical. I kept thinking to myself, “No, Mike, it’s not a son’s duty to visit his mother’s grave; he keeps her in his heart.” And then Pablo told you the same thing. But you knew that already. ❤️

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    1. Thanks, Jane. Stirring the pot of memories in this one. I’ve pondered for years who that little kid was and what happened to him. He really existed and my father really bullied him relentlessly. In a way, that little Latino boy is me, my mom, my older sister, and anyone who’s ever been the victim of a tyrannical bully. I had to write about this little boy and had been turning ideas over in my head for quite some time. Finally, the words came. I was hesitant to publish this one, but I’m glad I did. I only hope that little boy endured and was able to live a good life. I’m still working toward that goal for myself.

      Your kindness is beautiful, my friend. Thank you for your support.

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      1. Mike, I don’t have the vocabulary to express how effective your prose is in capturing both the never-ending trauma from domestic violence and the love that still blossoms in the same environment. Sending hugs, Mike. I share your hope that the little boy survived and found a way forward. So many damaged souls, including the one currently bullying the world.

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    1. Thank you kindly, Carol. A terrible story, indeed, but so much of life can be horrifying. I had to give that little boy a voice, you know? I hope he made it past my father’s bullying and lived a good life. I’ve never forgotten about him after all these years.

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      1. 😟 I hear you. I recently came across a 100% bullied grammar school classmate on Facebook (I went looking), and his life took an utterly amazing turn for the better. Sometimes that happens, and what a relief. 🌷

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    1. Thank you so much, Nes. A difficult story to write, for sure, and much of it is autobiographical. That little boy existed and I hope my father’s bullying didn’t prevent him from living a wonderful life. In many ways, he’s me, and I wanted to give him a voice after all these years.

      I appreciate your kindness and I’m glad you stopped by to say hello. Wishing you a good week ahead.

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  8. Sometimes, forgiveness is too difficult, because we’re, betrayed by someone whom we loved and trusted dearly, but, if we don’t forgive ourselves for being vulunerable, being too young to fight he person off, and we can’t, move on from the hurt, and we get, stuck, and, the person you met at the graves of your parents offered that opportunity to you to help you to let go of the pains your parents had, caused you, but you may not yet be ready to, and that’s okay too, because you can’t hurry these things, you must wait, until you’re, ready to, and everything will happen in time.

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    1. Thank you so much for your words of wisdom. Forgiveness is so difficult sometimes. I’m incredibly hard and unforgiving toward myself, which makes life problematic since I’m so self-critical. I’ve also never forgiven my father for what he put us through. I think writing about these things helps by clearing away some of the emotional detritus in my heart, but I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to self-forgiveness as well as settling the books regarding my abusive dad.

      I truly appreciate your kind words. They mean a lot to me. I hope your week is a good one, my friend.

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    1. Kindest thanks, Robbie. This one was difficult, for sure, but I’d wanted to write about that little boy for many years to give him a voice. I hope my father’s bullying didn’t prevent him from healing and living his best life. Lots of emotions in this one, for sure. I appreciate your wonderful support, as always. Enjoy your week ahead.

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    1. Thanks, Gary. That little boy really existed, and he’s haunted me for decades. I always wondered what he went through at the hands of my monstrous father, and whether he was able to get past all of that and learn to live a good life. I simply had to give him a voice. In many ways, that little boy is me, my mom, my older sister, and anyone who’s ever been tormented by an abusive bully or parent or spouse.

      I really appreciate your kind support, my friend. Thanks so much for stopping by to say hello. Here’s hoping your week will be peaceful.

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    1. Thank you, Joanne. Yes, letting go and living is really difficult sometimes. I’m 61 and I’m still struggling with this concept. I suppose we’re all works-in-progress to some degree or other. Whether it’s forgiving others or forgiving ourselves, those old memories can be hard to shake. Keep trying, right? It’s about all we can do.

      I appreciate your visits, my friend, and I wish you a peaceful week ahead.

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    1. Thanks so much, Liz. This story is semi-autobiographical, but some fictional aspects were added to create a cohesive tale. The reluctance to visit my mom’s grave (and the accompanying guilt), the memory my dad shared, the bullying and the little Latino boy were real; the adult Pablo was my idea of what might have happened if I’d ever met this victim of my dad’s bullying. I’d wondered about this little boy for years because he and I had a lot in common–we were tormented by the same person. I think he represents all victims of bullying and abuse. I liked how old Pablo developed in this story, how he survived and lived his best life despite what my dad had done to him as a child. Perhaps it was my way realizing it was possible for me to do the same.

      Thanks for your constant support, Liz. Very much appreciated, my friend.

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  13. Beautiful, Mike. Beautiful, and powerful, and infinitely sad. But based on your heart and soulful writing, your mother had a far greater influence on you than that monster of a father of yours. Blessings to you, my friend.

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    1. Thanks, Russ. I like to think so, too. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be my father’s opposite in all ways. My life may be a total wreck, but at least I have the knowledge that I’m not my father, so perhaps that’s something to mark in the win column.

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  14. Life makes no sense because of such damaged people who go about wrecking others. It is difficult to see past the pain they inflict and to let go, but Pablo was right – there seems to be no other option. 😓
    Your mom had it rough in this life, but she must be proud to have such a kind son. There is a jolting beauty in this heartbreaking and stirring piece, Mike, and only you could have managed to pen it that way. ✨

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    1. Thank you for your kindness, Aaysid. You’re right, of course–so many damaged people in this world. I’m still in the “letting go” stage of things. Not sure if I’ll ever completely get past all of this, to be honest. Forgiveness can seem impossible sometimes. This whole “work-in-progress” life of mine feels incomplete and frustrating, but yes, sometimes there appears to be no other option. Move forward, or stagnate.

      I appreciate your stopping by to say hello. It’s always good to see you here, my friend. Here’s hoping your day has been a good one.

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  15. Dearest Mike,

    This piece is entrancingly written. It was a gift from an older wiser man that had suffered also at the hands of hardheartedness as a child. I don’t believe in happenstance as I think you know. I believe that man was sent there for you. His gift, which you describe so eloquently, was one of great wisdom. He shared what he knew to be true about your mother. He probably read the guilt upon your face and wished to give you freedom from any guilt you might be carrying because of not being able to spare your gracious mom from your father.

    What a wise man and a kind and forgiving one at that. He likely worried about you as well, because he knew your father and the monster he was. As you know I too, know all to well what monsters can do to a child. Many are made from the monster’s that raised them.

    Thank you for sharing this intimate memory with us and what a gift this story is indeed. Sending you much love from both of us.

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    1. Thanks so much, Joni. Your words are comforting. While the character of old Pablo is fictitious, young Pablo is most certainly real. I never knew the little kid’s name, or what happened to him later on. This piece of creative nonfiction is my attempt to bring some closure to that little boy’s story, and offer hope to myself in the process. Everything else in this story is real, with only some minor changes to move the story along. At some point, I want to visit my mom again, even though my dad is buried beside her. It’s been ten years since I saw her headstone. Seems like a lifetime.

      I always appreciate your keen insights and compassionate heart, my friend. I’m so glad to know you enjoyed this story. It’s the first story I’ve written to completion since 1992, so even though it’s very short, it still feels like an accomplishment to me, and hopefully more stories will follow. In my previous writing life, I wrote stories almost exclusively, and I miss the process, for sure.

      Wishing you and Scott a good day today.

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  16. This story is well written and beautiful in a painful way, Mike. It’s a story of horrible memories that continue to haunt you. It’s also a lesson about letting go, something so hard to do at times. For me, I can always come up with a “Why?” but it’s the answers that seem to remain elusive. Maybe someday, you’ll be able to let go because honestly, your father doesn’t sound like a person who deserves your devoted attention and energy, even if it’s drawn from anger. You can do it for you, or for your beloved mother. Sending hugs, my friend. ❤️

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    1. Thank you, Lauren. You’re right, of course–at some point, I must kick my dead father out of my head forever. I’m in my 16th year of counseling (holy smokes…) and it helps, but other factors contribute to my being stuck in the past, and many of those factors are beyond my control.

      I enjoyed writing this piece. Old Pablo is a fictional character, but his younger incarnation is very real, and I always wondered what became of that little Latino boy who was also a victim of my father’s bullying. In many ways, that little boy is me, and his fictitious elderly version is the person I must become if I ever want to move past all of this. The rest of the story’s points are based on fact, with minor changes to make for a more cohesive tale. Liz nailed in her comment above: “creative nonfiction.”

      Wishing you a grand day today, my friend. Thanks as always for stopping by to say hello.

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      1. I can’t understand fully, Mike, but I do understand, if that makes sense. And you can only do so much. I just feel bad that you’re suffering from the memories. As to your story, “creative nonfiction” is spot on after what I’ve learned. I didn’t know Pablo was fictional, and then his younger incarnation is real and could be you when you were little. You’re an amazing writer. But I’ll keep repeating myself as long as I continue to read your writing. Hugs!

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  17. Whoa. I would leave it at that, Mike, but you’ve probably figured out that I’ll keep going.

    Your story is powerful and moving, and sometimes, though semi-autobiographical, there’s movement inside us that’s real. As I’ve written stories over the years, I’ve come to understand that they aren’t separate from me. They’ve taught me and changed me in profound ways. I do hope that one day, you kick the monster out. He doesn’t deserve your time, energy, or consideration. He doesn’t deserve any room in your heart. Pablo is very wise.

    And wonderful to see you writing!!!

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    1. Thanks, Diana. My middle name is “Work-in-Progress.” Still have a long way to go (don’t we all?). My path has been slow, rocky, treacherous at times, but I’m still climbing. I’ll tell you one reason I’ve struggled getting past a lot of my issues: I’ve lived alone the past nine-and-a-half years, and I literally go months without talking to anyone aside from blog comments here or there. This has really stifled my growth, I’m afraid. I usually have teletherapy counseling twice a month but this year the schedule has been so erratic, I’ve had only about five sessions in seven months. I’m stuck inside my head way too much, and the only things in that dark, musty place are memories. So, I’m stagnating, and it makes it next to impossible to make any progress. So I write about it, and sometimes I think folks become annoyed that I write about this so often, but I don’t write for other folks, I write for myself, to hopefully stumble across some insight that will help me along. Not sure what else to do. It’s the only release valve I have, really.

      I need to get past this. I don’t know if I have enough time left to do so. Some things last a long time (as the late indie musician Daniel Johnston once said)…

      Thanks for your support and encouragement, my friend. I’m trying.

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      1. It sucks that you have so few opportunities to be social, Mike – like none. I can see how that limits your ability to move forward into a different head space. Something to chat with the counselor about, huh? I wish you still lived in Oregon so we could meet routinely for coffee.

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    2. Thanks, Diana. Finally got a couple of sessions scheduled for later this month with my counselor. And yes, I wish I still lived in Oregon. I’m not a coffee person, but sign me up for iced tea or root beer and I’m good to go. 😊

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  19. Well done, my friend. An excellent bit of writing that comes from the heart. It moved me to tears to be honest. I know that poetry is your specialty, but this piece of creative non-fiction is perfect. Thanks for sharing it with us. xo

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    1. Many thanks, Darlene. You’re so kind. Years ago, prior to my twenty-year writing hiatus (1992-2012), I wrote prose exclusively, but was never able to get anything published. The rejection slips piled up and I grew more than a little discouraged and gave up. It felt good to write this little story after all this time. Hopefully, more will come. I’m glad you enjoyed it, despite the tears. It was difficult for me to write, for sure.

      Wishing you a peaceful Friday, my friend.

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  21. A fabulous, heartfelt piece of writing. And a wise message. We can spend our lives beating ourselves up or move on and live our own lives. Our parents had their own demons to live with. We don’t have to make them ours.

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  22. This is strikingly so real and so beautiful, Mike. Each word builds on the other and the story has such depth of emotion that takes us right there with you and your words are palpable. There us a feeling i get of Don Quixote and his quest in here. So many nuggets of wisdom passed on in your descriptive and heartfelt piece. I shuttered in those places of his big grin beating the boy gleefully and it brought me back to many feelings of my growing up in a world I never understood. I too remember this feeling well “my mind blank, my eyes dry (still no tears after all these years–what’s wrong with me?), and my dead heart buried in my chest. I don’t know how long I was lost in that moment—time flows differently in places of death; sometimes it doesn’t flow at all”. It happened to me many times and I have learned to trust the void, the blank spots and that in fact there is nothing wrong with me but when this go void in silence and my throat tightens in a knot, I know there is something there and sometimes later the dam opens me into an obliterated mess on my on terms and time. You have such a gift in sharing your words that truly penetrate, My friend. 💗
    “Just live. Just let go and live.”
    And that is my wish for you and me and for everyone of us!
    💔🙏🏼❤️

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