The intoxicating smell of fresh cut spring grass permeates the senses. Hand shears trim close to the granite markers, wreaths are laid at the graves. American flags adorn other graves. A handkerchief polishes the stone and sweeps away time.
We pause. Reflect. Contemplate. Remember.
I worked as a groundskeeper at a cemetery one summer, read the names as I walked by, memorized the names of many children. Parents would arrive regularly to mark some sad anniversary. The slamming of car doors reverberated like unintentional thunder. I would become invisible, a wraith solemnly watching with all the other ghosts in prayerful silence. Empaths, we mourned the living and the dead.
They usually stood, looking small, slump-shouldered, looking down, not at each other. She might kneel and brush away some dust, and when she rose, his arm might circle her shoulder as she leaned into him.
In time, she would draw a deep breath, the signal that it was time to leave. No words spoken, just plastic flowers left behind in a vase. The rest of the story drives away in the front seat of an aging Buick with protesting springs.
I wonder some days if the earth, every atom and particle, locked in a cycle of life and death, has within it the capacity to feel, or is the universe indifferent to our losses?
Even the elephants weep. They hold the bones of the departed and show their respect. When drought takes the young, the mothers will try desperately to waken the baby for a long while and then finally give up. They will stand there, sometimes for hours, in memoriam. A dog waits at the corner each day or his master to return from work. The man isn’t coming back, and the dog must know it by now—maybe this is simply a show of respect. Or hope.
Old soldiers gather at the Legion Hall on Memorial Day, fewer in number than last year, but they stand taller this day than any other. If the sun shines, they smoke Pall Malls and Marlboros, adjust their gear and suck in their paunches. The sunshine seems fitting. And if it rains, it seems appropriate, too.
They keep their thoughts to themselves, don’t talk about the wars, the things they’ve seen, friends they lost. Some things are to be remembered, some things best forgotten. They remind us of the duality of the struggle, that from the contest, honor is born, that light pierces the darkness.
It’s a mystery, a miracle, an enigma. It’s hard to fathom that the imprint we leave behind, in ways we cannot predict, endures. Some footprints are deeper than others, but we all leave a mark. Walk through the halls of your school. You may not know the names on these fresh faces, but the features are recognizable. There’s a Geiszler… a Dockter… an Ebel… a Delzer… a Heupel. It’s in the nose. The angle of the face. The eyes. You can hear it in the laugh. See it in the posture. Look at tintype photographs in the museum and you may see yourself. Bloodlines run strong. There’s comfort in this, a sense that things are as they are supposed to be. A continuum.
There were three of us that summer, watchmen of the dead, invisible servants to the living. We dug the graves. Poured cement for the vaults and painted them gold. We set up regal maroon tents and folding chairs, carefully smoothed the green plastic turf that hid the disturbed ground. It had to be perfect.
We waited in the shadows when the shiny black hearses led the somber parades through the cemetery. The arrhythmic beat of car doors, like drummers out of time. Prayers echoed off the statues of angels. Sometimes they were lost to the wind. Sometimes it rained.
In 20 minutes it was over. When they were gone, the tent came down, the sod was rolled back over the scar, and we watered it daily, respectfully, until it took root again. Each day, we plucked away rogue thistles and trimmed unruly branches, never having to be reminded of the sanctity of the task.
Every day was Memorial Day.
© Tony Bender, 2015
