(A forgotten Graveyard.)
I’ve never been particularly fond of cemeteries. I’d never really had a reason to ever go to one either, as the closest person to me who died was buried all the way in Detroit. I remember when I was younger, going so far as into my teens, that whenever we would drive past a cemetery I couldn’t even look at it. Just a glimpse was enough to get my stomach knotting. I don’t think it was ever so bad that I’d label it as coimetrophobia (fear of cemeteries), but it certainly wasn’t something I’d associate with pleasure. It wasn’t long before I learned just how many there were and where and when to stay focused on my book. But by doing this I think I drew more attention to them than if I had just glanced at them through the window. I didn’t have a concrete reason to hate or fear them either. I didn’t think them disgusting or deadly. In fact, to this day, I’ve developed a liking for the ornate statues, beautiful crypts and scenes that can only be described as “forgotten realms.”
It wasn’t until after my mother died that I went, willingly, to my first cemetery. Oakwood Cemetery, on 8th street, was a good place to start. While no one I knew was there, it encompassed everything that I secretly liked about cemeteries. Surely though, this weak stretch of courage was not guided when, on said trip, my father would torment me, albeit lovingly. It was a spur of the moment decision. We had been at the library earlier and I asked him where the closest cemetery was, which just so happened to be down the street. So we got in the car and made an impromptu visit.
When I got out of the car I didn’t know what to do. I started walking along the closest of the subtly sunken graves, following the slowly diminishing alabaster cenotaphs. Unlike other cemeteries that are newer, and therefore have more people to take care, visit and place flowers along the stones, Oakwood was old. There were unused plots, and a New Catholic section in the back, but you could tell its age. The huge trees hung, as if suspended from the air, all around, seeming to rival the number of graves. The air was still damp from the constant rain that had plagued upper Michigan that month. Though damp, the air was still, with only the stray breeze from the road, hundreds of plots away. The names had blurred and disappeared from the stones in the old Jewish section. The area carried a sense of timelessness that only seemed to exist in the area that the shrub-fence encircled. I say timeless because, while the markers, the ground, and bodies far beneath them were altered by the changing time, the meaning did not. It would always be a place of honor and respect to that someone, even if the names are faded away, the flowers withered, the grass overgrown, and no one comes any longer to pay homage. It seemed sort of peaceful in its miserable constant.
The whole serene moment shattered with the wry comment from my father: “You do realize you’re walking on the graves, right?”
My father tried to coerce me again after that; I could see the gleam in his eye, when he beckoned. He was standing in a section bereft of any stones, save one. An obelisk stood tall and plain, in the middle of the grass plain. He stood next to it, continually telling me to come closer and read the inscription. Hesitantly, I inched forward, my heart pounding louder with each step. What did I have to fear from walking across this seemingly empty space? How could it threaten me in its stillness, its simplicity? What caused my hesitance? Once I got within 4 feet I stopped, leaned forward and squinted, no way was I moving forward. The simple epitaph explained it all; my ill feeling, the barren yard, everything. ‘Northern Michigan Asylum 1886’ There were no ending dates, no names, nothing to indicate who was buried, or if anyone even was. It could have simply been a memorial stone.
When I realized just what this place was, I ran screaming all the way back to the safety of the road, where I was certain there were no bodies slowing rotting 2 meters beneath my feet. (While over 100 years there would no longer be anything to rot.) Was the unease I felt somehow subconsciously known? Surely the empty section would give one hesitance to enter, since it wasn’t obvious what it signified, like commemoration for a war, signified with a flag flying high. No, its simple-ness attributed to its complexity. So many open-ended thoughts, feelings, wondering if your loved one was buried beneath your feet or behind one of the old cottages at the hospital.
Did this one moment clearly imprint on my mind the unease I felt throughout the entire trapeze through the grounds? It definitely emphasized it. The stillness, the utter lack of anything but the past that wound my stomach up, made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
For surely that is what a cemetery is, when one looks past the bodies and the mausoleum. It’s the past. The present may enter for awhile and roam around, touching the graves, getting a taste for what will one day become of them, but they must leave. The future is barred from entering, as no one knows what will happen later in life. This place that seems to trap you, giving you the feeling that if you stay too long you won’t be able to leave, though the road is clearly visible and the shrubs would not be hard to climb over.
It is also a physical embodiment of loneliness. Perhaps it was more noticeable at Oakwood than, say, Veteran’s Memorial, with its well-mowed lawn and flowers at each grave. It wasn’t as if there weren’t important people buried at Oakwood. Perry Hannah, the founder of Traverse City, and his entire immediate family is buried there. But walking along the unofficial streets between sections, my hackles rose. The scents seemed to linger and cling, the cold settle into my bones. It almost seemed as if the dead all around were sucking the life out of me, yearning for the thing they have lost. Secretly wanting to be recognized once again, remembered. For a few years after their death, they still have ties to the life they unwillingly left. But soon enough they are forgotten, left to the company of those forgotten as well. They are no longer connected, but you, as a visitor, are.
You are connected to the present and the living through your watches, your phones, the keys to the car in your hand, but you are also disconnected. The watch continues to move forward, though you are unconscious to the movement of time in this desolate place. The phone goes unnoticed as it vibrates in your pocket or purse. The keys offer a soft jingle to break the silence that only the dead can offer. You are alone in your thoughts and the people you see across the multitudes of graves seem as foreign to you as Nessie. You play pretend, as you walk through the rows, getting to experience the solitary loneliness, the detached feeling, with all the time in the world to ponder and think. You are completely alone. And in this moment, one can fully appreciate and dread the consequences of death. You are cold, even if the day is balmy at the bay. You feel a certain hollowness that comes with understanding. The visit is an escape, though into a better world it is yet to be decided.
And after awhile it is understood. While it might take years, you will be back, whether you’re in the ground or spread somewhere else. People feel important only when recognized, and this cemetery offers only the exact opposite. It is undeniable and inevitable that one day, people will forget to visit your stone on your birthday or deathday (that’s staying one word because it should). Your name will simply become a branch on the old family tree. You are still loved, but loved in a sense that someone loves their Great-Aunt or a Grandmother they never knew. All cemeteries offer this unwanted conclusion if you stay long enough to realize. Everyone will eventually be forgotten, and no one is exempt. You could be the king of the world and eventually you will only live on the pages people write about you.
So does this conclusion make this life we all have right now worthless? Many say that what you do in this world doesn’t matter, because no one lives forever. And I suppose this is the truth, because no one does live forever, even in memory.
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