Where Love Still Lives

January 21, 2010
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I started to feel very dizzy. My walking became a little wobbly as I passed over where corpses once lay. I thought of them all, and obtained a slight headache. I was alone this time. I had been to this cemetery before with family, but I felt like coming alone this time for some reason. The headstones were all different shapes and sizes, colors and heights, widths and lengths. I notice things that no one else notices, and I mean no one. It’s where I stand, or the way that I’m looking at things, but it just makes my sight so unique. I’m guessing I saw this cemetery different than everybody else.
This grass was particularly green and looked like it was taken care of quite nicely. This town was very small so I wondered who took the time to fix up this place. That question quickly left my mind as I read the names on the graves. There were a few headstones (spread out all over the place) with the same last names. Knowing the size and population of this town I assumed they were all related somehow, and knew one another at one point in time. Some of the ones with the same last name where all lined up chronologically. I imagined each of them as a family who sat down to eat dinner every night praying to God to bless their family, animals, and crops. I know they didn’t all believe in God, but I do.
So I started thinking about how some people consider it disrespectful to walk over graves. I didn’t understand that. It’s not like I’m dancing on their graves or celebrating their death. I actually think the dead are dancing on us; or for us rather. Because when we are living we have reasons to be upset, or sad, or mad about things in life. After life, though, what is there to complain about? I know none of us know what the “after life” is like, but I’d imagine there are no reasons to be upset, or sad, or mad about anything. So because they have no reason to be upset they’ve got to be glad with at least some of the people living. This may not make any sense, but I don’t expect everyone to understand all of my thoughts.
Walking by all of the headstones looking at the dates, trying to find the oldest, I stumble upon one at which I stop. This headstone read December 2, 1873-October 4, 1878. I got dizzy again. This little girl didn’t even see the age of five. I don’t even remember when I was five. At that moment I realized how lucky I am to be alive right now. Every day I should be on my knees thanking God I’m alive, but I don’t and probably still won’t after this event. Walking a little further I stumbled upon another headstone this one read November 17, 1916-December 4, 1916. I had to look at that date a few times before I realized that this little boy only lived for about eighteen days. Eighteen days. Most things in life are things you want to last a while. Granted there are tasks we complete or events that only take place in one day, but we want the memories or repercussions to last a while. I can’t even think of anything in my life that lasts less than eighteen days. That young baby was taken from this world before he even got a chance to really live in it.
I started to wonder, who was the first person put in this cemetery? What would a cemetery look like with just one grave? Pointless questions always enter my mind, and I never have answers to them, but for some reason I still ask them. I became dizzy again and wanted to sit down. At first I didn’t sit on the gravestones because I thought it would be disrespectful, but I thought about it and sat down anyways. Because I wasn’t being disrespectful. It’s not like I was sitting on the person or anything, and my intention was harmless. I then sneezed and got a little snot in my mouth and spat it out on the grass. If someone had seen me do that they would probably call me disrespectful. I wasn’t doing anything wrong; all I did was spit and that was that. So many people think this ground these people are in should be sacred when really it’s the memories that are sacred. We shouldn’t disrupt these grounds in anyway, but as long as our intentions are harmless so are we.
I stood up and swayed around like a seismograph needle during an earthquake, but quickly found my balance. I began to walk towards what was the entrance (now the exit) of the cemetery. I’m not one for talking to the dead or anything, but I believe that if we tell them something they will hear it, or receive it in the mail wherever they are or something! So I turned to take one last look at where these people were buried and said, “Thank you.”

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