The Cemetery

I don't know how cemeteries are treated in your hometown, but I suspect that they are well-groomed, well-visited and--some of them, at least--are treated like parks.

Such are some of those around here. Walkers, bicyclists, drivers abound. Pictures are taken of the gazebo or the mausoleums. Fresh flowers and American flags are everywhere. The peace is palpable.

I first walked in a cemetery probably before I could walk on my own. My parents loved to roam the old cemeteries and burial grounds for miles around. They would note relatives and friends, of course, but mostly they would look at the old tombstones. Some were still grand, stretching ten feet tall. Some were creative, bearing images of angels or books, or, for a gambler,  a pair of dice. Some had embedded  tokens. Some were so old as to be unreadable. I remember being shown how to take paper and, pressing it against the stone, rubbing it with pencil to bring out the print.

The oldest cemetery has a great many mausoleums as well as decades-old (perhaps even centuries-old) sand-colored buildings that house the offices, crematorium and chapel. I recognize many of the names from growing up here, including street names from my neighborhood. Isn't it wonderful how the past entwines with the present?

The newer cemetery was made on land donated by a businessman whose son had been killed. Only about fifty years old, its trees are not so towering and the stones not so unique. Some bear photographs, some have angels. A tiny chapel sits in the back, made of stone and nestled among the trees. Many a time have I sat a distance away and listened to the bagpipes or a twenty-one gun salute.

I go there often to watch the wildlife and to think about my parents and other family members who have chosen this as their latest home.

I believe that cemeteries are for the living. We go there in our sadness, or sometimes to share joy, with departed loved ones. I've no objection to those who walk here, for they all act respectful of the dead, and peaceful with the living.

I remember stories of the ghosts in graveyards, the horrific zombies that roamed the grounds, the screeches in the night. How wrong those stories are!

When I choose to visit, I feel God's presence. I feel a closeness with history. I feel those I loved most reaching out to me. I have no fear.

Sitting or walking, coffee in hand, I think about those who have gone before me. What were their lives like? How long has it been since their resting places were visited out of love instead of curiosity?

I remember my Dad leaving a coin on his father's grave. As he said a brief prayer, he would add, "Here's a dime. Call me when you can."  When my own father passed away, I tucked a quarter in the columbarium. "Call me when you can", I said.

I feel lucky to be able to visit right now, for I am not yet ready to take up residence.