Nathan T. Oswald

Nathan T. Oswald is an un-published writer, one of many, looking for a place to show his wares. Nathan chose The Inditer.

Nathan's story details an anonymous walker's hike through a cemetery and symbolizes man's own mortality, which hopefully will give the reader a chance to look at and respect the brief time we are in this world.

Nathan Oswald is most interested in receiving feedback from readers and contributors to The Inditer. Please Email Nathan at oswant@mail.snc.edu

Nathan Oswald is 19 years of age and attends St. Norbert's College in De Pere, Wisconsin. He plays guitar in a small home-town band and his biggest dream is to one day be successful enough to make his living at writing.

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Man on a Walk

.....By: Nathan Oswald

Who is this I see, his name at my feet; etched in cold stone? There are no flowers for him, or markers of any kind to stand him out from his neighbors. The grass which grows on him is kept like the rest, browning in spots, bare in others, not even differently cut from the rest to honor his presence. ‘Does anyone come to visit you, Mr. Who-ever-you-are? You are so far off the path, I doubt anyone comes here to see you. No, I'm not visiting you either. I'm just walking, just passing through like everyone else.

It's quiet here. The rain is soaking through to my bones, but it doesn't chill. It just gets to you and makes you numb, makes your footsteps quiet, so no one knows you're passing through. The rain goes pitter-patter, pitter-patter, dripping off the leaves of the big elm tree, falling silently to the ground, to where the people are, forgotten.

Mrs. So-and-so and her husband. ‘Good day to you madam, and how are the children? I'd tip my hat, but I'm not here to pay courtesies.' There's a walk to my home that must be taken. So until we meet again, Mrs. So-and-so…

What's worse than the quiet is being alone out here. Oh, there are other people, but they've not come to talk or laugh or love, but to walk, as I walk. So I walk alone, as they walk alone, and it this isolation, we find unity.

This man, Mr. Something-or-other, was affluent when he walked, for he is marked by a pillar of great stone, stretching up to the sky high above the others, adorned with intricate designs and wreaths of rain-soaked flowers. The grass around his marker has been trampled underfoot to prove witness to this man's many visitors. Surely, many walkers stopped by this marker and shed tears into the soil for this quiet guest. Of all the people to be seen, this man is the most impressive, but what does that gain him? I wonder how deep he lies?

Now I look down a last time before crossing my hill. A glimpse really, no one ever really means to look. And what I see I do not know, for it is a marker like any other, covered with the rain with grass growing up along the edges like any other. Its neighbors regard him as they would any other, with blind acceptance, and the rain hits it like any other. The name on it is familiar to me, a name reserved for one who does not yet occupy. I've stopped briefly to contemplate, but the time has passed. Now I continue, for I rain soaks into me. I have a walk to finish.

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