Grave Circumstances.

Hi Journal. I went to Starbucks today. I sat at my table and my mind wandered. It wouldn’t let me stay in the coffee shop. I have other places to write, but none of them felt right. I needed energy. Lots of people around, but people that I didn’t know. So, naturally I went to the local cemetery. I’m writing in a cemetery that has not a single name I know, but it feels the same as the cemetery where all my relatives were buried. Journal, It’s curious. When no one is here, I feel absolutely alone. I look up at the names from the white granite bench that I am sitting on. Those names belong to people. Though I can read the names, say the identity of the person whom that space belongs to… The person doesn’t feel ‘there’. At least not to me. It’s kind of a slow day here at the cemetery. The fenced off yard in back houses a back-hoe. It must be peculiar for the back-hoe. It’s never started up or used unless someone has died… the sound of it’s idle, almost a bell tolling the ring of mortality. I did see a few visitors come to remember their loved ones. Though, I am sure they thought their family member was in a better place, their body language communicated otherwise. It was as if they were talking to someone who was 6 feet away, locked in the vault made of marble. They brought flowers, a wreath, a pinwheel. And then, I got scared. How can this peaceful park filled with remains of the deceased channel so much emotion? My initial thought was the name. When one sees the name of their loved one on a stone, immortalized in a heavy medium- maybe that makes people feel a connection. As I sat on my bench pondering, I noticed the visitors getting their things together to go home. I waited about ten minutes. After they left the cemetery I still couldn’t distract my attention from the grave they visited. At the risk of becoming haunted, I sauntered toward the grave that had just received a visit. I hoped the person it belonged to wouldn’t be offended. I wasn’t trying to be rude. It wasn’t like I was selling peepholes or anything. Though the idea doesn’t really have legs, come to think of it- that would be an interesting thing to write about… a grave to grave salesman who solicits services to dead people. Painting, polishing, gold-leaf restoration, landscaping, escape bells, etc. Anyway— I found myself standing in front of a grave which contained the body of someone the world knew as Peter. His legacy to anyone who didn’t know him was that he was a ‘Beloved, husband, father, and grandfather’. I paused, looking at the headstone with the freshly placed decorations. After reading the inscription, I started.

“ Hi there, Peter. That’s a wonderful family you have there. I see you’ve been gone since 2017. They seem to miss you. How are you adjusting?”

“…”

I didn’t get anything. Nobody was there. I didn’t even feel a “Get off my lawn, ya damn soul-searchin’ millennial!”

The area was completely absent of any being. Celestial, or otherwise. I felt just as alone as before Peter’s family came to the cemetery.

“Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“…”

I walked away with my messenger bag slung around my shoulder. I had my left hand in my pocket, holding my keys. My right hand hung over my bag as I fiddled with the self-repaired magnetic clasp on the front flap. The center of the cemetery wasn’t populated. It appeared to be a place that one could just sit and reflect. I figured the best position to think in a cemetery was horizontal. So I placed myself horizontally on the grass. Only briefly did I question the uneven sod which I was on top of. It wasn't marked. If they planted something, they were required to label it, right?

I looked up at the sky.

The people I cared about were located elsewhere. I thought about the cemeteries I knew as a child. All of my family members had chosen to be buried there. I knew their graves were visited regularly by other family. I’d seen similar emotion to what I’d just witnessed at Peter’s grave. What was it? What made that connection possible? It clicked. The thing that I didn’t have with Peter that his family did. Memory.

Journal, I think it's memory- the thing that is unique to the deceased and their loved ones. For most, the grave is the last memory of the dead. The last time most of us see our loved ones who have passed on is when we put them in the ground. I guess going to that place of the ‘last memory’ is the strongest access point to the dead for most people. I looked out at the cemetery and wondered about myself. Where is home base? Where am I going to plant my body for my kids to visit after I am gone? It’s not something I do. I may be a bad person, Journal. I love the people in my life who've died. I'd give just about anything to see them again. I know in my heart that I will some day. Maybe I mourn the wrong way. But I go to the graveyard in my heart to confer with my loved ones. I am hundreds of miles away from my loved ones’ remains. I have visited my father’s grave once. I don’t know where to find my grandfather’s grave. My great grandparents, I haven’t seen their graves in years… but I feel them. As strongly as my main man, Pete’s family feels him. Journal, what do I do? What is the most efficient method of dealing with what I leave behind, so Those whom I leave can cope? For a few grand, I can be turned into a vinyl record and pressed into an album of my choice. Maybe that’s a good way to go, or rather- a good way to stay.