GRAVEYARD
By: Jennifer Maurer
I reach out and turn the radio off as I pull into the entrance gate of the cemetery. It seems a violation to have any music playing, even the soft classical strains that I was listening to. I slow the car to a crawl as well, inching along at 15 miles per hour as I drive underneath the two enormous weeping willow trees.
I pause at the fork in the road and watch two young girls go by on rollerblades, shaking my head in disbelief. People actually come here to exercise, skating or jogging along the roads that wind through the cemetery. While I see the practicality of it---a safe place, hardly any traffic---the idea gives me the creeps. To be active and alive in a place filled with the dead...the appeal escapes me. Some might think that an odd thought, coming from a forensic pathologist. Yes, I am surrounded by death, but that is my job. I do not choose to include it in my leisure time.
I turn to the left, following the now familiar route to the grave. Around this bend, past the veterans memorial, and park next to the pine tree. The landmarks help in this maze of marble and granite. The first time I came here to pay my respects, I got hopelessly lost and ended up wandering up and down the rows, weeping. I had been so out of it during the funeral that I never even noticed where we were. Luckily my mother was paying more attention and came with me the next time.
I cut the engine and get out of the car, opening the trunk to get out the flowers I have brought to plant here. It took me a long time to decide what to bring. Something pretty but not too frilly. I eventually settled on pansies, a combination of deep purple and bright yellow. Colors that demand attention, as did the person I have brought them for. I gather up my trowel and container of water and start up the small incline to the grave.
I sink to my knees in the soft earth and lean back on my heels, just staring at the stone for a minute. Every time I come here I do this, just to reassure myself that the loss is real. Tears fill my eyes and I blink, trying to rid myself of the images: a bullet to the head, blood spreading across the floor, all the dreams destroyed in one instant.
I reach out one trembling hand to touch the inscription on the stone. I trace the "M" with a fingertip and then my hand drops away, unwilling to finish the name. I know who is buried here, who I have lost. Time doesn't make the void any easier to fill.
"I miss you," I whisper as the tears start to slide down my cheeks. "Every time I think I'm getting used to your absence I find out I'm wrong. I wish I had gotten the chance to say good-bye."
I wipe they tears away with the backs of my hands and start what I have come here to do. I keep talking as I dig into the soil, knowing that even now I am being heard.
"You know, it's funny," I begin, "I always used to think that your beliefs were out in left field, but as the cancer progresses and I feel my own death becoming more of a reality, I'm actually finding some comfort in them. Not that I'm ever going to dive into these things headfirst like you did, but the possibilities are there, and maybe that's enough."
The moist soil crumbles easily and I pause in my digging to squeeze handfuls of dirt, watching it leak out between my fingers. I wonder about the coffin six feet under me, wondering what is happening to the body contained therein. Logically, because of my training, I know precisely what is happening. I know it will happen to my body as well when they bury me. I have considered cremation, wondering if it would be better to have my remains burned rather than leave them subject to slow decay. Then again, I'll be dead, so what will it matter?
I tip the pansies out of their plastic pots and continue my one-sided conversation as I gently settle them into the shallow hole I've dug.
"When Dad died, I remember telling Mom that he was entitled to burial in Arlington with full honors, but she said he didn't want that. I felt so lost as his ashes were scattered out over the water. It was almost beyond my comprehension that a person I had loved could be reduced to such nothingness. Dad was such a commanding presence, to watch him float away on the waves, nothing but tiny particles, was shocking to me. I'm glad you didn't leave such a request behind. It's important to me to know where you are, to have a place where I can come to remember you and talk to you."
I pat the soil down around the pansies and rock back on my heels to admire my handiwork. The brilliant hues of the flowers are startling against the creamy marble of the tombstone. A fitting symbol of the chasm between life and death. A chasm that narrows a little bit more for me every day.
"I think I'm going to be with you soon," I whisper, "I feel a little bit closer to you every day, and it scares me. I don't talk about it with anyone, but it's almost as if I know you're waiting for me. Which is comforting, but I still don't want to die. It's not fair, we're both too young..."
My voice trails off into muffled sobs. Through the blur of tears I gather up my gardening tools and prepare to leave. A soft hand on my shoulder stops me from rising.
"I thought you might be here."
I gulp down the last sob and take the hand that is held out to me. "I come here more often than I did at first. I don't know, it's like I'm trying to prepare to end up here myself."
A gentle hand stroking my hair comforts me. I slowly pull my hand from the loving clasp and wipe the dirt on the grass, staring at the stone for one last moment, although the name carved there is forever burned into my memory.
"It's not your fault."
I sigh. "Someday I may be able to convince myself of that."
"Ready to go?"
I take the hand again and pull myself to my feet.
"Almost."
I kiss my fingertips and lean down to touch the inscription lovingly.
MELISSA SCULLY
BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER
"I'm ready now, Mulder."
We walk down the hill to our cars, still hand in hand.
*********************
End 1/1
Oh, sorry, did you think she was
visiting *Mulder's* grave? Guess again. Ah, mind games, gotta
love 'em!