I Find Cemeteries Peaceful Places
A large recently filled grave space, unusually large. No grass, no stone yet. It is a cold day in early December. My sister's birthday, it would have been her 26th, but she has been buried here for 16 months. Her grave looks as thought it has been here forever; her stone looks weathered, and it has mud on it. Perhaps from the large new grave immediately east of hers, perhaps her stone just needs to be raised and leveled a bit. I have brought my father here. We are here often. He kneels and weeps each time we come. Each time we make a visit here, I have to lift him to his feet and tell him it's time to go. His weeping trails off once we're back in the warm car. We never speak as I drive him home. My mother cannot bear to visit. Although she is ill, none of us know that she will be buried next to her only daughter, my sister, just over two years from now on a bitterly cold January day.
Two months have passed. and a single stone appears on the new, large grave. There is some, but not much snow on the ground. The cemetery workers will put sod on the large grave in the spring. My father and I are visiting my sister's grave a few steps from this new stone. While he kneels and weeps, I read the new stone. It is red and has a cross and two names: John and Grace. They have the same date of death and were so young. John was 11, Grace just two weeks past her 16th birthday. The same date of death, an automobile collision? A fire? There is unmarked ground, but no others bearing their last name are buried in this Section 17, near the statue of St. John of the Cross, our guidepost to the exact location.
The next visit, my father kneels, weeps. A couple in their 40's stand over the graves of Grace and and John. They weep also. Just as we have noticed the young ages of Grace and John and their shared date of death, they have noticed on their visits to their children's graves that my sister was also young and that she has not been here long either. Before we go, stories are exchanged. These are stories one cannot share with a total stranger, nor even many people we know well. Yes, these are historical facts, recorded points in time and human activity, but the details and the feelings they raise to the surface are just too disturbing for conversation. Too difficult to say, too difficult to hear. We rarely speak of them.
Our three young loved ones buried here are all murder victims. Grace and John were killed outside her high school. She was a sophomore, and John was a 5th grader at a nearby elementary school. John and Grace walked home from school together most days. A classmate of hers was obsessed with her, possessive, jealous, and could not accept that she was not interested in him and that they were not a couple. This day, this sophomore classmate of Grace's attacked her; he pulled a knife. Her brother, John, rushed to help her. He killed them both, stabbing them repeatedly until other students pulled him off and subdued him. The parents of Grace and John stop talking; we all weep.
I took my father to the cemetery today. He is now old and frail. He can no longer kneel, but he still weeps. I do also. The snow has melted and the ground and gravestones are visible for the first time since about December 1st. Still, everything looks dead. The decorations people placed before Christmas all look worn, dirty. There was so much snow, there are no red heart decorations that usually appear just before Valentine's Day. It has been an unusually cold and long winter. My sister has now been dead longer than she was alive. When she died, my mother was not much older than I am now. Grace and John would be in the early part of middle age. Their parents' stone is there now to the south of Grace. Just birth dates, no death dates. We haven't seen them recently, but we get to Section 17 and the St. John of the Cross statue less than we used to. Perhaps we will see them in the spring. I'm sure they still weep. We all do.
*************
Added 3 December 2011. Reflecting on this new day and the months in passing, I made a second part to this. Rain, not snow. Still remembrance. Peace.
EP Link
Two months have passed. and a single stone appears on the new, large grave. There is some, but not much snow on the ground. The cemetery workers will put sod on the large grave in the spring. My father and I are visiting my sister's grave a few steps from this new stone. While he kneels and weeps, I read the new stone. It is red and has a cross and two names: John and Grace. They have the same date of death and were so young. John was 11, Grace just two weeks past her 16th birthday. The same date of death, an automobile collision? A fire? There is unmarked ground, but no others bearing their last name are buried in this Section 17, near the statue of St. John of the Cross, our guidepost to the exact location.
The next visit, my father kneels, weeps. A couple in their 40's stand over the graves of Grace and and John. They weep also. Just as we have noticed the young ages of Grace and John and their shared date of death, they have noticed on their visits to their children's graves that my sister was also young and that she has not been here long either. Before we go, stories are exchanged. These are stories one cannot share with a total stranger, nor even many people we know well. Yes, these are historical facts, recorded points in time and human activity, but the details and the feelings they raise to the surface are just too disturbing for conversation. Too difficult to say, too difficult to hear. We rarely speak of them.
Our three young loved ones buried here are all murder victims. Grace and John were killed outside her high school. She was a sophomore, and John was a 5th grader at a nearby elementary school. John and Grace walked home from school together most days. A classmate of hers was obsessed with her, possessive, jealous, and could not accept that she was not interested in him and that they were not a couple. This day, this sophomore classmate of Grace's attacked her; he pulled a knife. Her brother, John, rushed to help her. He killed them both, stabbing them repeatedly until other students pulled him off and subdued him. The parents of Grace and John stop talking; we all weep.
I took my father to the cemetery today. He is now old and frail. He can no longer kneel, but he still weeps. I do also. The snow has melted and the ground and gravestones are visible for the first time since about December 1st. Still, everything looks dead. The decorations people placed before Christmas all look worn, dirty. There was so much snow, there are no red heart decorations that usually appear just before Valentine's Day. It has been an unusually cold and long winter. My sister has now been dead longer than she was alive. When she died, my mother was not much older than I am now. Grace and John would be in the early part of middle age. Their parents' stone is there now to the south of Grace. Just birth dates, no death dates. We haven't seen them recently, but we get to Section 17 and the St. John of the Cross statue less than we used to. Perhaps we will see them in the spring. I'm sure they still weep. We all do.
*************
Added 3 December 2011. Reflecting on this new day and the months in passing, I made a second part to this. Rain, not snow. Still remembrance. Peace.
EP Link
By:
WildeOscar
Age:
51-55
,
Male
24
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