No More Breath

When I was young, I used to hold my breath every time we passed a cemetery.  I kept the habit until I was 11 years old and first visited Arlington National Cemetery.  As we approached I thought that I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath all day long.  It was there that my superstitions about cemeteries died and were replaced with a short-lived curiosity about bones.  I accept the symbolism of the Tomb of Unknown Solider as an adult, but as a child I wondered if bad bones could be buried in the tomb.  I realized that we don’t celebrate the quality of life, but rather the fact of it.  I was a shy child and wanted to avoid the pomp and circumstance, the accolades and melancholy of a funeral and burial.  I was a strange child, too.  Maybe I wanted to avoid my corpse turning to goo in a coffin.  Either way I decided it would be best to be cremated.

_{My great-grandfather who is buried in a location unknown to me.}

 I’ve Danced with Ghosts

In college we had an irreverent Halloween tradition, a Mausoleum Party.  At 18, I danced on the steps of a tomb dressed as a sexy vampire.  I didn’t put much thought into the location.  Irreverence is required in college and sexy vampires should dance with ghosts.  But I wasn’t raised irreverent.  By morning, I was back to being mortal and boring. I never set foot in a cemetery again until I was 24 years old and my grandmother had passed away.  I didn’t think about my ancestors or history.  I didn’t think about omens or angels.  I thought again about the goo in the coffin. My fear of goo has just as much to do with watching too many movies about aliens as it does with the afterlife.

Hello in There!

I’m not afraid of death.  I’m not curious about death. I’m not overly concerned with my bones being buried or burned anymore.  I think it is best to avoid cemeteries.  But at some point in your life they call to you.  This past January after a big breakfast, my family and I decided to take a stroll before heading home.  The restaurant was near a large historic cemetery I’d never been to before.  I can’t hold my breath that long and I’m not interested in thoughts of goo.  But I am grown now.  I can say that without any disappointment.  It was time I did what adults do and walked into the graveyard.

My kids are small.  I started out with some basic information for their sake, “Dead people are buried in the ground,” and ended with tips for Southern hospitality, “Don’t step on the graves, don’t run, and keep your voices down.” 

I’m the first to admit that my children are ill-mannered.  They stepped foot into the cemetery and took off full sprint.  The four year old headed to the first mausoleum and shouted, “Hello!”  She turned back to me smiling.  Great.  I’ve seen The Sixth Sense.  She sees dead people.  The two year old and five year old followed suit.  Shouting into the locked memorials and pointing at the tombstones asking, “Are dead people really under there?”  I have no clue.  Probably bones and goo.

They accosted an elderly lady placing flowers and asked, “Did YOU put that body in the ground?” 

“No,” she responded kindly. “Someone else put them in there.  That’s my mother and father.”  I looked at the dates and noted they died before I was born. 

“Does dirt get into their noses?” 

“No,” the lady answered again.  She was infinite kindness when I was aflame with embarrassment.  She looked like the type to admonish, but her admonishing eyes turned to me.  “Let them ask,” her face said. 

Did she mean me, too?  I was 11 again.  I wanted to ask her why we hold our breath.  Is it because we are waiting?

Grave Writing

My husband is burying his grandfather this week.  There is no solace in his sadness.  A year ago he buried his father.  I am writing about graves for those who don’t want to be in cemeteries this week.

I have a black cat, and I walk under ladders.  I am not afraid of broken mirrors or umbrellas opened indoors.  But I never walk on graves, I walk between them.  It is not out of fear, but respect.  I don’t want my children to be afraid or fascinated by graveyards.  Cemeteries are good places to go for a walk.  We are never alone on our grave walks.  Runners, dog walkers, families on a stroll, those remembering love ones, and those forgetting.

We feed ducks and shout into the echoing mausoleums.  I hope the spirits are happy to hear the laughter of my children.  Maybe they hear my nervous steps trying to navigate the line between the graves.  Maybe they want us to hold our breath so that we can understand the quiet of the other side.