On First Visiting Rob O's Grave

"I found there a large tinsel shamrock, green and sparkling and lying on his grave. Someone had been there.  Someone had visited before me.  Someone knows what I know."

- Tertiam Quidd,  

               I was introduced at a very young age to the tradition of visiting graves.  It seems now that every family with roots in the old country did so; but since my grandfather’s profession was what used to be un-euphemistically called an undertaker, it felt to me like I had some sort of special obligation to participate in visiting my underground family and friends.  To me it was like taking a peek into how it would someday feel to be old and weary.  The preview was not inaccurate.  It was in the cemetery that I learned and heard stories about many of my ancestors.  I would never have recognized those by the sound of their voices or the lines of their faces; I knew them only by the shape and location of their tombstones where the earthly remains of their life stories lay buried along with their bodies.  The boundary between the living and the dead became to me an insignificant invisible border located someplace along a one-way street leading us all to a destination we only went to with the greatest reluctance.  Later, in Sunday School I learned there was another way of looking at death, but by then I had pretty well narrowed it down to which hand held the chocolate.

               It’s a lot of very sobering stuff you carry with you when you pay a visit to your underground family and friends.  It may be that the weight of it and a natural inclination to look in the other direction is why tombstone visits are less a part of our lives than it seems they used to be.  There are major holidays like Veteran’s Day and Christmas when some among us still feel compelled to pay a visit to those silent shut-ins, but it is far less often these days that gardening gloves and tools can be found on just an ordinary Sunday at the cemetery.  This, I believe, is one of the behaviors that have fallen away from us as the pace and distractions of life have increased.  It may be a matter of distance, but often it is only that we have other things, better things, we think, to do that demand our time and attention.  I’m not so certain that it’s a good thing.  I’m not so certain of that at all.  Life goes on, it’s true, but not for everyone, and not forever. 

               The first time I visited Rob O’s grave after his funeral was on one of those cold, windy February afternoons when cemeteries are nearly always deserted by the living unless they’re there for the situation of a new arrival.  So, I was alone as I hoped I would be.  After all, the cemetery is a place to be alone with your private thoughts and memories while you attempt some form of mental or even verbal communication with one who must now and always remain silent.  You might not care for a lot of witnesses.  Yet, there seems to be something metaphysical that takes place.  It seems the act of standing at the grave alone is enough to affirm a reality of connection.  Blood, love, friendship, admiration and respect link us, one to another until those who live, those who have lived and those who will live are all in some mystical manner bound.

               Although I am not certain of this, I think it was William Wordsworth who wrote a poem entitled We Are Seven; an account of a discussion wherein a boy who is now one of six insists his family is yet made up of seven.  Perception is an exploitation of our limited senses which may deceive us; but also enable us to experience a shadow of what lies beyond their inadequacies.  Some, many in fact, particularly those requiring something more described, might attempt to define this within the imperfections of a structured faith.  That alters little; although I believe the sensation to be a richer one if left on its own.  Why force it by prejudices to fit as proof of something else.  Why name it at all. 

               My first visit to Rob O’s grave, a visit I felt drawn to make, reaffirmed for me why it is actually worthwhile making those boneyard appearances.  There, beside the tombstones, even the very young might sense the continuity of a unity beyond words.  Visiting those from our lives who have gone underground is good for us.  In fact, it’s important if we are to understand who we are, what we are and where we are. Today I do know what it's like to feel old and weary, but the aged have no monopoly on death.  Perceptions will change, but sensations need not.  Rob O, as a long and valued friend was part of my life.  I was part of his, and now I am part of his death while his death even so is now part of my life.  I plan on visiting again.