The scuffle of my feet on the ground seemed to be the only noise. When I listened more closely, I realized that I had drowned out the irritating roar of traffic on the nearby highway.
Is it really that strange to visit a graveyard when you have no relatives for friends to visit?
A garden of stones. Similar names bunched together in irregular groups. Husband and wife rotted together for eternity. Had they already been forgotten by the living, silenced forever? Were the dead really silent at all?
I approached a few of the graves and tried talking to the deceased. After all, no one else was in the cemetery to stare or shame me. After speaking, waiting, and listening, I gave up and decided that the dead were, in fact, silent.
My mind had drowned out the noise of the highway across the water, and the induced silence was eerie. As I strolled on- the graveyard stretched out to the river and in all directions, seemingly forever – a leaf scraped the ground, driven by the wind, and broke the hush.
I jumped and turned around to stare at the leaf, as old and rotted as the corpses that slept all around me. Silence reigned again and I walked on.
Tombstones were stained from rain and weather. The streaks on the worn slabs made it appear like the stones themselves had been crying for the ones they marked.
Name after name, I walked past, never quite focusing enough on one to read it. Everyone had a story. I wanted to leave something more than a rock to signify I had lived. I wanted to be something in the world when it came my time to leave.
I sat on the steps that lead to a lower part of the cemetery and gazed out across the civil war portion. Identical stones rested in perfect rows with names and dates labeling each lifetime. A song came into my head and I sang it softly to the departed.
Wish I was in the land of cotton
Old times there are not forgotten
Look away, look away, look away to Dixie's Land
In Dixie's Land where I was born
Early on a frosty morning
Look away, look away, look away to Dixie's Land
wish I was in Dixie, harah, harah
In Dixie's Land I stand, to live or die for Dixie
Away, away, away down south in Dixie
Away, away, away down south in Dixie
The dead didn’t stir, applaud, or hiss. I stood up, faked a quick bow to my dreadfully quiet audience, and walked onwards.
A crow broke the calm and cawed. I smiled wryly to myself at the cliché of a crow being the only bird singing in a graveyard. Eventually, it too decided that it was tired and flew off into the gray skies.
Coming to the edge of a river, I sat down next to a few gravestones, resting my arm on one of the actual marble cut outs. I realized the disrespect and instinctually uttered a “sorry” to the one buried beneath. It didn’t accept the apology, but then again, it didn’t deny it either; it didn’t say anything.
I stood up and wandered while wondering why no one came into the cemetery. I considered the deceased. Was it really serene to be dead? I don’t know if I could appreciate the silence that seemed to come with it.
“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead” –Poor Richard’s Almanac
Then, I left that place, never to return. I left behind the silent: the ones, who never spoke back, never criticized your singing, and never protested. I went away, already fearing the solitude.
