something to mourn

The first cemetery I ever visited was Arlington cemetery in D.C.  It was supposed to be grand and marvelous, but the sky was overcast that day, the white marble didn’t sparkle with honor or glory. The flowers seemed not to give off anything they were supposed to, no emotion of remembrance or forgiveness; just slowly decaying life under that sky. Older sections were tombstones of all different shapes and sizes, mostly big, honoring fallen heroes, I suppose. But the majority of the sections were crosses. Endless rows of crosses. They had run out of space for big ornate tombs for the heroes, our guide had said. Now they were all just crosses. I suppose they didn’t have a choice when it happened. I suppose they had no idea. I felt they’d been cheated. I felt as thought I had borne witness to this betrayal. I felt as though I was a conspirator watching the changing of the guard. I felt as though I could never honor these men as much as they deserved. I wondered if that was death.

The second was in West Virginia Mt. lookout cemetery. It was much smaller than Arlington. Just the families that had lived in that small town their whole lives I guess.  A small patch in the back of the church, where someone thought it would be a good place. Someone’s dewy backyard, quaint. I saw the grave markers of my father’s family going back and back and back. I saw what seemed to be my great-great-great-grandmother, if I could read the moss correctly. I saw that my great grandfather died when he was only fifty. I guess he hadn’t put much thought into where it was he would be in the end. I wonder if he liked it there. But he was only a name on a tombstone. A name and a date. I have seen no pictures. There are no stories. Again I wondered if this was death.

The third was a local cemetery, a big one. I was on a walk and came across it. There was a lady at the gate who was leaving as I was coming in, so she left the door open. It was a gate that could have locked me out. My father used to joke, as we’d drive by cemeteries on trips: “Why do they put fences around graveyards? Because people are dying to get in!” It seemed more like a cage. It seemed like going to a zoo. I had no purpose here. My life had seen no death, save the other cemeteries. I knew no one here.

This cemetery was large and ornate, hills of tombstones of all varieties of rock and shape. It was old and had hosted many a generation. It was broken into sections on a series of rolling hills.

There was a sign near the Jewish section that said something in Hebrew. ‘Cemetery’ I guess. So I walked through the tombstones all isolated from the others, void of uniqueness, except that they were Jewish, and that they had sisters and fathers who lay beside them, with their name. I wonder if this was how they wanted it to be. Defined by faith. I guess that’s not that bad, if they were faithful.

I realized I was alone. There was no one left visiting relatives or friends. I was an intruder. I knew no one here. I had no one to mourn for. I saw the fences and the flowers, the grass shifting in the wind. Everything felt so static. I walked on for fear of becoming rooted.

I walked atop a hill. The dates on these went back to 1870. They had family plots and were ornate, gargoyles and angels giving scriptures, all cracked by earthquakes since. I guess no one bothered to fix them. I suppose no one put up the money.  I wondered who they were. I wondered if anyone ever cared to look up here. I wondered if they are still remembered.

The sprinklers came on. I was an intruder. I had missed closing time. The opening of that gate had let me into a world I was not meant to see. I was a tourist in the after-death. You never think about these things, sprinklers in a cemetery. I guess you just think that it tends itself, when you put a body into the ground with the embalming, it embalms everything around it. That the tombstone never changes.  Only the flowers blow away. But no, they had sprinklers, to keep the grass alive.

Then there came a great slapping noise, of water striking against stone. It scared me. The way you jump when you awake from a dream. I didn’t know what it was. It was the first noise in my trip. It was vivid like the flowers hadn’t been at Arlington. It was defined so clearly, unlike death. But it struck me with the fear of being caught here, wondering with no obvious purpose. And all I could say in defense would be: “The woman left the gate open.”

 This time I saw it. A tombstone, a great pillar of some fancy rock, newish, had been placed only a foot or two in front of a sprinkler. It felt so wrong, the thought of putting it there, that my heart began to sink. The great smack of this methodic system meant to sustain life would hit this poor man’s back, forever. I was finally overwhelmed. I mourned as much as I could. I meant it. I knew that I was the only one that had ever stayed past closing to watch this unfortunate man. I was the only person to see the gifted flowers drenched, and the only one to hear this horrid noise. I finally overcame my need to wonder about my fate. I did not wonder about death. I had found purpose. I was no longer an intruder. I was no longer a conspirator. I was the only one who cared.