“Get a job!” “Take responsibility!” “I’d give you money, but you’d probably just buy drugs.” They didn't have to say it out loud; their expressions and how they avoided eye contact was enough. But it's never as easy as all that. I turned in a hundred applications in order to try to find employment but no one will hire you without somewhere to send your check. I’d attempted to find an apartment, but couldn’t lease without an income. I wound up penniless and desperate, knocking down the doors to a shelter, only to discover the already waiting names were months deep. I had to get inventive, and in those conditions it was difficult to find a place where people wouldn’t judge or take advantage.

My favorite nook was a cemetery on the undeveloped west side, tucked away behind a fortress of floral. Bushes and overgrown trees hemmed the barrier between the living and the dead, foreshadowing what lay beyond. I’d drive down the road, past civilization, past the remnants of the hustle and bustle. A right turn brought me through the cast iron gates, leading into what would become my refuge. I ventured there often.

The stench of decay was not as prevalent as one might imagine -- it never bothered me. I once sat on the grass in the center of a semicircle of tombs, writing in my journal about what it would be like to watch the corpses rise, confused, to unleash disease and chaos. (I imagined interviewing Death, asking him if he would ever consider retirement. He’d reply, “Name’s Duncan. I love my work, and couldn’t imagine any other calling. I mean, what other marketable skills do I really have?”)

Deserting my wandering imagination, I’d rise to explore the rest of the hidden afterworld. The gravel scattered as I trekked along the semi-over grown paths; fingertips lightly touching the tops of the nearby graves. It was a bone yard; a memorial: a testament to all those who had gone before. My eyes scanned the vast expanse, reading: Edgar Thomas, 1891 – 1956. Beau Marx, 1905 - 1947. Samantha Adalan, 1920 - 1989. The inscriptions went on and on, a sea of names and titles: “Beloved Father,” “Cherished Husband,” “Loving Mother and Wife.” These were the end testaments, the epitaphs, the final stamp on their lives. Agnes Weatherby, 1941 – 1998. “We’ll miss you, always.” I wondered who “we” was; if they really would miss her or if it was just something to say like, “I’ll call you later”. She used to have visitors. There were shards of broken glass from a patterned vase that once held flowers.

A few years ago, a daughter knelt beside her mother’s grave, weeping. She’d touch the marble, pressing the palm of her hand flat. (Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave…) She’d sob, prostrate. Her father would stroke her hair in comfort, whispering. Or maybe he’d stand back, silent with his own emotional bleeding.

There were many scenes like that. Each funeral procession left its own imprint on me. The energy of grief and outpour of emotion was always overwhelming; no matter how many times I saw it. Often I’d hide beneath my willow tree, trying to remain part of the scenery, watching silently while each car would pour in. I say “my” because we had a dual possessing. I did not plant it, nor did it plant me, but still, I found my roots in the hallowed ground.

That tree, full of wisdom and somber truth, whispered to me, pushed my weak limbs towards my becoming. It was those graves, symbolic and strong, that reinforced the need for actual living. It was the spirits which never tormented or taunted, never looked upon me menacingly that enabled me to feel content and befriended. They were the only representation of normalcy and constants that I’d experienced. It was for those emotions and fulfillment that I returned year after year. It was that dreamscape I dwelled in -- unjudged, untarnished, and unafraid.

09/13/2006

Author's Note: Second English assignment for Dr. Averill's class. Again, not a poem, but thanks in advance for any crits. :)

Posted on 09/13/2006
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