day112 - cemetry gates
today, you said "i have this belief that i can change most things in my life if i want to, if i try hard enough."
she replied, "i don't know if i'm that optimistic."
you thought for a minute, and said "i don't think it's genuine optimism, really. i think it's desperation metabolised into hope."
today your hope led you to organise a "family" movie night afternoon. roughly half of a 275 minute film.
afterwards, you decided to walk to the cemetery together.
there is a ham-fisted metaphor in here somewhere about going to a place of mourning and death in service of keeping something alive.
the first thing, the expected thing you noticed was the rows of ornate headstones with (mostly) Italian and Greek surnames on them. these people lived to about 80 or 90, and their epitaphs listed many names of the people who loved them in life.
there was something sweet about the headstones of married couples. we think of death as so lonely, but these people lived such long lives and were laid to rest beside one another.
your grandparents bought their burial plot in Croatia years before they died. when your dad told you this, you thought it was morbid, such a strangely practical way to go about something so violent. but now you think maybe they were just making sure they would still be together in the end.
you walked the aisles reading the names and dates. the first jolt was seeing the headstone of a woman who had died at about 50, and reading "survived by her loving wife […]" etched in the middle of the stone. "adoptive mother of […] and […]". it hurt to know that so many of these other couples lived for so long, but she didn't.
the second jolt was noticing a stone decorated by seashells hanging from strings, and reading "born asleep to […] and […]".
those two words alone held so much grief in delicate hands. you froze in place and started to cry a little. moreso upon reading at the bottom: "forever missing our little sister, […] and […]".
the third and final jolt, the one that made you realise you couldn't keep twisting up and down the aisles, scanning every grave for someone who died too young, was an unconventional headstone. a man who had died, around 50 as well.
name date/age photo
surrounding the photo were letters from his surviving family. to the left, one from his wife. to the right, two from his daughters, one older, one much younger.
then, under the letter from his wife, a piece of notepad paper, scanned. something he had written before he died.
"going for a run" "love you all xxx" "[…]/dad" smiley face
it broke you a little, how personal it was. how his headstone was a window into the pain and the love of his family. you cried some more. and then you walked back to your friends.
a grave is often more an indication of how a person's loved ones want to remember them. you learn the barest details, sometimes a quote or a sentence describing how they lived, and below that, the list of people they left behind.
they were laid to rest with care by those who loved them.
the old religious people have crucifixes or etchings of jesus on theirs. some of them written in italian, greek, croatian, or hebrew. the ceremony, the customs of their beliefs probably meant the most to them. even though you're not really religious, you feel better knowing that their faith— something that probably brought them comfort, could go to the end with them.
the secular headstones were all so different. the details people included, like "devoted David Bowie fan" above a quote from the movie Labyrinth.
the children's epitaphs betrayed personalities that their families didn't yet know. instead, they were inscribed with grief and adoration by their parents and siblings.
so many people all in the same place, all united by the fact that they were loved, and their loved ones wanted a place to mourn them. somewhere to feel closer.
you've never been to see your grandparents' final resting place. they died last year and you barely had a chance to mourn. on the way home you talk to her about death, cemeteries, and your respective grandparents. she feels a lot like you do about yours. like you never had a chance to get to know them because language and culture kept you from being able to understand them the way you wanted to. you mourn the people you didn't get to meet, not in any profound way.
you squeeze her hand and say something that makes her laugh.
once home, everybody in the room insists they're grateful they came along. you feel a little like you dragged them on a misery tour, like this wasn't a very successful bonding exercise.
but they probably got something out of it. so you believe them after a little bit of trying on your part.
you talk for an hour after. and you don't feel like you fixed anything but you are, for once, just optimistic that it might work out.