Cemeteries. Some people see them as representation of death.
I see them as representation of life.
I will gladly wonder, wander and meander through a cemetery. Reading names. Out loud. So that someone is remembered. Even if they’ve been gone one hundred, two hundred, or twenty years. I see their names and check out the names on the stones close by, connecting the family ties. Sometimes I can put together small snippets of fact. And then my imagination picks up where facts let off. I imagine the life and the world at that time.
Yesterday I saw two headstones. Well over one hundred years have passed. When in March a young woman gave birth to a child. Days later the young woman died. Days after that the child died. They will spend eternity distinguished and tied together. Their lives on the same metal marker. Affectionate words for each-showing they were loved.
In very close proximity to the marker for mother and child, sits another marker. Both markers removed from the main cemetery. Over to the side. By a fence line. Alone in their togetherness. One marker tilted. Next to the young woman and her child. Not quite close enough to the woman and child. Not close enough for him. The lone and lonely marker bears the name of the husband of the young woman. His death is a mere couple of weeks after the loss of his wife and child.
Over a hundred and thirty years later I quickly grasp their young lives. And the short years of their existence, exists still.
I don’t dwell on the sadness of their death.
I imagine and dwell on the power of their love.
I don’t know their story. But I imagine it. I imagine it as intensely strong. Young. In love. In a world different than what I know.
But I know love. I know youth. I know the expectant feel of carrying a child. Waiting to hold that child. Love it. Raise it. Share it with my world.
And I guess I just kind of want them to know-I thought about them. Wondered about them. And know that their eternity is stronger and continued. Much more than their short time here.