I was in my husband’s home town a lot this past week so I
popped into the cemetery to---to do whatever it is we widows do while visiting
a gravesite. I still haven’t figured out why we go. It’s not like Don is there,
buried six feet under. Part of his ashes are but his ashes are all over the place: on
the shores of Lake Michigan, in the winds over a ghost town he loved, along a nature trail, in
our back yard, in a river that runs through town, in a locket, and in a
four inch high, boxed urn tucked in a bookcase. I was a regular Johnny
Appleseed when it came to spreading his ashes. I had to make myself stop coming
up with places where I thought his ghost would like to roam. And I’m still surprised
I didn’t find a way to ship some of his ashes out west to the mountains in Colorado,
his favorite place on earth. I was on a mission that spring after he
died. I told myself it was a mission to please him but I suspect I was just making sure I had places to visit Don that didn’t involve going to a gated
community full of dead people. But you've got to admit, Don is now part of the Classic Elements: Earth, Air, Water and Fire and there is something poetic and eternal about that.
The cemetery is a pretty one full of trees and hills and
they don’t restrict the height of the stones like so many places do. Don picked
out the plot himself, based on the fact that his life-long friend and his wife
bought the lots next door. Party time when we all join him there, I guess. That
thought tickled Don’s sense of humor. This week, I did not expect to see the stone with
our names on it so overgrown! Vegetation covered up half the surface since I’d
been there earlier this year. It made me sad, mad and embarrassed that I hadn’t
check on it sooner. I didn’t have any tools with me but I pulled out what I
could, unearthing a nest of angry ants in the process. I tried but couldn’t ignore
the ‘yuck factor’ the ants brought to the experience. Ants will take over the
world….or so I’ve heard and now I have proof.
I stopped by my sister-in-laws house while I was out and about and we got on the topic of burial verse cremation. She wants to be buried
and I said, “I don’t care what they do so long as they make sure I’m really dead
first.” But I am getting cremated and my box of ashes will reside down with
Don’s and the ants. Yuck, yuck, yuck! Have I mentioned YUCK! I don’t like ants.
She doesn’t want her kids to spend a penny more on her funeral than she spent
on her husband’s funeral and I said, “Considering how long ago he died and how
much longer you can live you’re going to get buried in a cardboard box! Prices
go up.” She laughed as I knew she would. My sister-in-law has been a presence
in my life longer than my husband was at this point in time. How strange the
math gets after someone dies. I’m now older than my husband was. He’s like one
of those butterflies that got trapped in amber for all eternity. My memories of
him are fossilized and grow yellow with age, perfectly preserved with no chance
of growing in numbers. Maybe that’s why we widows go to cemeteries? We need to polish
the amber from time to time, to see where we’ve been to know where we’re going.
We give an accounting at the gravestone, ticking off on our fingers our widowhood
accomplished. Hey, Don are you listening?
Am I doing okay? Are you doing okay? What do you think about the classes I took? As I said these things in my head, I felt like Little
Orphan Annie searching for her lost past and future all rolled into one. If
only that were possible for widows like it is for orphans searching for their
birth parents.
The trees at the cemetery are entering their show-off mode.
Some people love the fall color palette---the yellows, browns, oranges and golds---but
it’s my least favorite. It signals change and effects my moods in a negative
way, says the woman who wouldn’t eat orange foods until I was over forty. Years ago
I took a class on Color Psychology where I learned it wasn’t just in my head,
there are physiological reactions to colors which explains why they don’t
use orange in the psycho wards. Interior designers know this. People who create
commercials know this but what does all this color talk have to do with a widow going to a
cemetery? Not much. I just got sidetracked thinking about how much easier it is to visit in the spring when the promise of renewal is palatable in
the air we breathe, when the crabgrass hasn’t claimed the stones and the ants are
still hibernating underground. Out of sight, out of mind.
I didn’t cry while I was at the cemetery
but I chocked up as I drove through the gates to go home. I could feel the tears behind
my eyes begging to spill out. But I told them, “NO!” I am woman! I am strong
and I will forge a new life for myself even if I die trying. ©
