Tonight at dusk, E and I rode our bikes over to Downtown North, a neighborhood located between our own and downtown proper. E stopped to drop in on a friend at his friend’s dad’s studio, while I went on solo, and pedaled over to nearby Old Gray Cemetery to ride and to think a bit.
Frankly, most modern cemeteries and associated post-modern American funerary practices leave me cold. So much about the way we “do” bereavement in our culture just seems bloodless and, well, dead to me. That’s one reason among many why for now at least, there is still no public, physical marker anywhere making note of Henry’s 18 years with us.
This monument marks the grave of Lennae Davis, born on October 17 of 1902, and died September 24 of 1904.
However, Old Gray, along with some of the cemeteries I’ve visited in France, New Orleans and Low Country, South Carolina stir something in me that I can’t quite explain. Rather than being a “final resting place,” some cemeteries aren’t final at all. Instead they radiate a raw, everpresent and powerful sense of life, as defined by grief.
What I see when I visit Old Gray is not a reflection of the tidy, polite, time-limited “stages of grief” paradigm we ask the bereaved to observe today. No, the grief that’s visible everywhere in Old Gray is neither tidy nor polite. It’s howling and whirling and wailing everywhere you look, with a lush overabundance of tactile grief and death imagery tilting this way and that, in every direction.
Old Gray at dusk tonight
There are no neat rows in this cemetery, and there have been no attempts to stifle death’s ripping burn with boxy sameness and conformity. Instead, Old Gray is a place where grief has full sail, and where any attempt to neaten up the death of a husband or child would be futile. This place doesn’t ask your permission to let it all out in one beautifully marbled scream.
This is the grave of Lillian Gaines, born in 1868 and died in 1876. With this heartbreaking monument to grief, her parents made certain that that their pain in losing a beloved little girl with a bow in her hair would be as raw today as it was the day they buried her. There are no “stages of grief” visible here… No attempt to pretend that losing their little girl wasn’t as terrible as it really was – then, and always.
While nowadays, I generally try to sidestep any reminders of death and dying in order to avoid being pulled back under, somehow, placing myself inside Old Gray’s vortex of primal grief actually feels cathartic to me. Outside Old Gray’s big, iron gates, I must now observe the expectations of those around me, and do what I can to avoid making anyone uncomfortable with any display of my grief. Every day I do my best to be polite But here, in this place, I know that should I want to fall on the ground and tear at my hair, beat my chest and wail for my son, I would be in good company; I know that I would not be the first mother or wife to do these things within this secluded 13 acres in the middle of the city. I can feel those women all around me, and they understand.
I love old graveyards. I love to walk through them alone, and sometimes I talk to the people there, especially the babies. I tell them that even if after so long everyone else has forgotten all about them, right then, I am remembering that they existed.
My husband and I stumbled across a pioneer cemetery here in Oregon. It is completely unmarked and we just followed a deer trail into neighboring woods. It was a real moving experience reading the headstones, seeing the loving work that went into the markers and seeing the history. Sadly it is now landlocked by a housing. We tried to get back to it to take some pictures and can’t because it is now surrounded by million $$$ homes. I wonder if they even know it’s there?
One of your most beautifully written pieces ever. I am in awe.
I love old cemeteries and have since I was a little thing. Like you, the neatly kept, uniform marker type of modern memorial garden places leave me cold and flat. give me overgrown, moss covered, weathered stones any day. My family donated land generations ago to a church in Mississppi. The plots there are just the kind of place I want to be remembered.
I agree with Claire R – an amazing piece, one of your best.
Having an addicted daughter, I often torture myself with thoughts of her dying due to this addiction. I often contemplate, burial vs cremation etc etc etc.
I often feel I would choose burial because there would be a “place” for me to go and sit and cry and feel that she was literally there.
This piece stirred me and brought tears to my eyes. It was beautifully written.
Thank you
@Bobbie – I remember so well the terror and the dark “what ifs” I lived with in the period just before Henry’s overdose. It’s a terrible burden for a mama to carry around – that constant fear and worry for the person you love more than life itself. And everyone keeps telling you to “detach with love,” but that’s not what we mamas do, is it?
Much, much love to you,
Katie
I also agree with Claire…beautiful.
Thank you so much @Jennifer, and everyone for the kind words. This blog post just sort of fell out of my head. I didn’t even know what I was going to write about my visit to Old Gray when I started typing. And then those words just happened.
This is the kind of experience for me as a writer that keep me blogging, and I so appreciate that some folks take time out of their days to read what I write, and to let me know what they think.
xo,
Katie
This is a lovely post Katie.
I have always loved going through cemeteries, but agree, not the ones where all markers have to be flat and all the flowers are the same. Diagonal to where Nick’s ashes are buried is the grave of an 18 year old girl who was killed in a car accident about 9 mos. after he died. The grave marker her parents put up reminds me of some of these old ones. It is tall, about 6 feet. The stone is carved into a youthful looking angel, with wings, and she is leaning to rest her head on her one arm as she looks down. Her expression is sad, but peaceful. It is beautiful. One time they were there visiting when Pete and I were too. We were heading to our cars at the same time. The dads were looking down, but the mom and I locked eyes. We both gave a little nod and smile to each other. She understood. I understood. You understand.
Geri, your comment is beautifully written.
Absolutely beautiful…I am so, so sorry for your pain. I am sorry that life is such nowadays that those who have lost loved ones cannot grieve as they need, that society seems to put a limit on how long you are supposed to hurt.
From a readers perspective I just want to say that you seem to have such an enormous amount of strength and you handle your loss with such grace. You have found ways to look for the beauty in even dark places… something everyone can learn from.
Truly a special, well-written post about a meaningful topic. Hugs to all of you moms missing your children. It shouldn’t be so and I am sorry for your enormous loss.
Why can’t you put up a marker or headstone for Henry?
@Tom- we will when the time is right. not there yet.
-katie
“That’s one reason among many why for now at least, there is still no public, physical marker anywhere making note of Henry’s 18 years with us.”
So modern culture or society or something isn’t actually keeping you from putting a marker or stone in the cometary for your son?
“That’s one reason among many why for now at least, there is still no public, physical marker anywhere making note of Henry’s 18 years with us.”
So modern culture or society or something isn’t actually keeping you from putting a marker or stone in the cemetary for your son?
@raquel -
My son was cremated. His ashes are with our family. When we are ready, we will create a physical memorial for him. For now, however, my child’s public memorial legacy is in the work of the charity that bears his name.
-Katie
You could donate a bench or a tree or something like that with a dedication plaque if you want a physical object to visit or to pay tribute. Certainly everyone’s expressions of grief are very personal, but sometimes having a place or a thing to visit is comforting.
@Raquel
That’s a really lovely idea, and one we’re definitely considering. I agree that for many folks, having a physical spot to visit is comforting and helps with healing.
Thanks,
Katie
Why did you include his last name? I really think he was just asking an honest question… I respectfully believe that outing his last name here is inappropriate. Why blog about the peace (and pain) that graveyards and headstones can give those who grieve, along with yourself, and then be annoyed (as you clearly are on FB) at a comment that simply asks why you can’t put one up for your loved one? Confused…
@Rosie
“Out” whose last name? I’m not clear what you are saying. Can you please clarify?
Thanks,
Katie
@Rosie,
I just realized what you’re referring to. I hadn’t realized I’d done it. Fixing now. Thanks for the heads up.
Katie
I love this post, and that you touch on the conformity and expectations of grief. I don’t really want to go into the why, but I appreciate that. There’s something about this post that almost gives permission and authority to tap into our primal grief and not care what anyone who might be around would think. Thank you for writing.
Well written. I love death iconography of all sorts, inclusing the history of cemetaries (such as the famous Mt. Auburn in Massachusetts). A common trope on old SC graves is an open gate with the legend, “Come, Ye Blessed”. Very comforting. You would perhaps like a new book called The Undiscovered Country by Carl Watkins. I read a nice review of it in the Financial Times a few days ago, but that is not online. Here is a not as good review that is: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/non_fictionreviews/9810914/The-Undiscovered-Country-by-Carl-Watkins-review.html.
we have “pioneer cemetery’s” here in Portland OR. and they feel the same as the one you described. at one of my favorites there is a family plot that has 10 children dead. all under the age of 5. the parents also buried there. but no older sibs. i think about that family. can you even imagine?
It makes me sad that there are even social norms about grieving. If someone grieves too much, it makes people uncomfortable; if someone doesn’t grieve “enough” or in the right way, people wonder why not. It’s all so personal and heartbreaking, and I wish we could support each other as humans a little better.
It makes me sad that there are even social norms about grieving. If someone grieves too much, it makes people uncomfortable; if someone doesn’t grieve “enough” or in the right way, people wonder why not. It’s all so personal and heartbreaking, and I wish we could support each other as humans a little better. Kindness goes a long way.
As the parent of a child with a chronic illness that I know will end in his death before adulthood, I find it strangely comforting to visit cemetaries where there are many children laid to rest. This may sound crazy, but in “days gone by,” the death of children was so much more common, and I wonder if more folks would understand how I feel/what I am facing. Given how common the death of small children was/is across time and culture, I find it so odd that people do not want to talk about or even aknowledge these losses.
Looks like a gorgeous cemetary.