The Graveyard

We were at an age when we realized we could get away with things. We weren't supposed to eat chocolate in the morning or ride our bikes without a helmet, but if no one caught us, we wouldn't get in trouble. At first, we broke rules we thought were stupid or unfair; then, we pushed boundaries just for the sake of it.

Hopping the cemetery fence was enough of a thrill for me, but Franklin had other ideas. He kicked a flower pot and hurt his foot, so he swore and smashed it with his heel.

"Come on," he instructed and I followed.

He made fun of names on gravestones. "Thaddeus," he snorted.

I snickered.

"Keep a lookout, okay?" He squatted over one of the graves—Arthur something, Beloved Husband— and then pulled down his pants. "Gross man, look away."

I kept a vigilant lookout while Franklin defecated onto Arthur Something, Beloved Husband.

On the walk home, I didn't say much. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he hadn't even wiped himself. Whenever I meet someone named Arthur, I still feel the need to apologize.