Two short stories, two points of view, which is better?

An Afternoon Walk



Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot before me, I wondered how much I was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where I stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. I tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
I wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, I was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As I approached the down slope I noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones I didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late it is young wives I often see pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because I saw no one I assumed the visitor was like me, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road I wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once I came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when I glanced their way. So I dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of my walking was interrupted by my weaving among the stones, the sound of my steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When I walk there I contemplate often the tears shed which I imagine replenish the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. I thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; I saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly I backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That I imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled me. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As I hurried back to where I had begun my walk I felt embarrassed because I had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into my own heart because I knew I would not walk in that cemetery again and I would not tell my mother how I came upon my father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.



An Afternoon Walk
By
Carolynn Pianta


Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot Anne wondered how much she was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where she stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. Anne tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
Anne wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, she was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As she approached the down slope she noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones she didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late Anne noticed young wives often pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because she saw no one and assumed the visitor was like her, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road Anne wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once she came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when she glanced their way. So she dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of her walking was interrupted by her weaving among the stones, the sound of her steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When she walked there Anne contemplated often the tears shed which she imagined replenished the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. She thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; she saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly Anne backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That she imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled her. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As Anne hurried back to where she had begun her walk she felt embarrassed because she had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into her own heart because she knew she would not walk in that cemetery again and she would not tell her mother how she came upon her father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.