A Renewal of Faith in the Graveyard
A Moment of Grace Amidst Scenes of Outrage
Yesterday was Memorial Day. I went senior shopping early because I knew it was going to be hot. I bought two bouquets of flowers in bright spring colors. Thankfully when I arrived, the gates were open. The cemetery has been closed because too many people were taking advantage of the paths and lawns to walk and lay out on the grass. The caretakers were concerned about social distancing.
My parents, and before them my grandparents, were religious about visiting family graves on the holiday first designed to honor those lost in war. As it was for many, the remembrances had extended to all those they knew who had died.
When my grandparents were alive, Memorial Day often meant a trip by car to Angels Camp and Murphys in the California foothills to lay flowers on the graves of those long gone — a sister died young, an uncle killed in a mining accident, a cousin, a dear friend. My parents were later enlisted to drive them there.
As my parents aged, I was the one enlisted as driver. They would decimate the garden, clipping flowers and greenery and bits of rosemary to decorate the graves.
We’d go from St. Joseph’s to Rolling Hills to Sunset View, finding the headstones by counting off from a particular tree, or knowing an uncle was straight downhill from the flagpole, or visiting the newer cluster of family graves established when a beloved cousin died suddenly and unexpectedly in her last two weeks of pregnancy. My grieving uncle bought up several plots so she and her unborn son would have close family around when their time came. It was so wrong, a daughter being the first to die. I don’t think anyone ever fully recovered from the shock and loss. I know it’s haunted my thoughts, my heart, for the more than 50 years she’s been gone.
This time it was my parents I came to visit with my store-bought flowers. I put the bouquet in the tin cup and sat on the damp grass for a bit, thinking how much I missed them and what a beautiful view they’d selected when they’d purchased their site. The expanse of green lawn is dotted around with eucalyptus and fir and poplar trees. Beyond is the blue bay and the white highrises of the City and the Golden Gate opening to the far seas of the Pacific.
A Graveside Encounter
After a time, with the sun beginning to unseasonably blaze, I started down to put flowers at the graves of my sister-in-law’s family. I was standing there, getting oriented, when a groundskeeper approached, asking if I needed help.
“No, no, they’re just around here,” I said, not wanting to be a bother.
But he was insistent, wanting to help, so I asked him to help me find my paternal grandfather’s headstone. I knew it was nearby, but the groundsman was eager to be of assistance. He called in the name, and then walked me to my grandfather’s spot. The cup was overgrown and after a bit of poking, he couldn’t locate it.
“Let me dig a new one for you,” he said.
Again, I protested, saying I could just lay the flowers on the headstone, and again he insisted on helping. As he began to dig, the old cup was located, but it was rusted out— not that it really mattered. I knew the flowers never lasted the night. As soon as the late afternoon shadows began to fall, the deer came out of hiding to snack on all the lovely treats.
The groundskeeper replaced the cup and waited while I set the flowers. I was feeling grateful that he’d been so kind and helpful, and then he said he wanted to tell me something.
He thanked me for letting him find the grave and put in a new cup. “I’m feeling very sad today,” he said. “I guess I just needed to talk with someone.”
Earlier that morning he’d heard from his doctor. The cancer he’d survived nine years ago had returned. He would be going in for a consultation the next day.
We talked a little while longer about how it was less terrible to get the news this time around, how his doctor reassured him there were new drugs on the market that were more effective than had been previously available. He said the was glad the cemetery had reopened so that he could come to work and have something to do to get his mind off it. He didn’t say, but I knew that helping me, chatting with a stranger laying flowers on the graves of people she loved, was part of “getting his mind off it.”
We said our goodbyes. I said I’d say a prayer for him that all would go well. He said his name was “Trini, short for Trinidad.” He wanted me to know it so I could use it in my prayers. I said I would.
A Restored Faith in Humanity
A moment of human connection. The kind of moments that are newly precious because of the constraints we’re living under. A moment that reminds me to have faith in people. I’ll admit it’s a faith that’s been sorely tested by protesters demanding their right to a haircut or dinner out or to party with Memorial Day crowds takes precedence over public safety, over protecting themselves and others even as the shadow of the rising death toll looms.
My moment with Trini in the graveyard restored my faith that people can be kind, that there are people who value looking out for others, people who cherish life while we have it and remember those we’ve loved when it passes.