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will never die. Our beloved father,
brother and uncle. We will never forget you.
Rest in peace till we meet again.
1830–1875
I think of the mourners who erected the tombstone for him three hundred years ago. Their remains have joined his under the clay soil. But did they meet again? I’ve never walked around a cemetery on my own before, and it is an oddly surreal experience. Walking among the dead makes you appreciate the impermanence of life and the permanence of death like nothing else can. All these people once lived and walked and talked and did their thing as if they would live forever. This house is mine, this land is mine, and now they are all just gone forever.
The saddest headstones are the ones erected by grieving parents. They are the most poignant. A simple epitaph on a new grave touched me deeply.
Beneath this simple stone
that marks her resting place
our precious darling sleeps
alone in the Lord’s long embrace.
May 2001–December 2001
As I stroll along the path I remember what my mother once told me. When the fruit is ripe and ready, it will leave the branch easily. I was the branch that Vivien was torn away from. I wasn’t ready. She still had too much to live for. Without realizing it I have fallen into a kind of melancholy, contemplative mood, and it is a shock to see a hilarious marble tombstone.
Is This Headstone Tax Deductible?
It makes me smile. I take my phone out and take a photo for Ella. The tax inspector in her will appreciate it.
The curved outer path meets an axial pathway that takes me to a central chapel, and a small custodian’s lodge that was designed to be used for burial services. The path meanders, and I pass a newly dug grave awaiting its occupant.
I walk over to the manicured grass and spot the oak tree in the distance. I begin to walk toward it. I no longer look at the gravestones on either side of me. As if I’m guided by an invisible hand, I move forward with sure steps until I’m standing in front of Vivien’s grave. My breath escapes in a long sigh. Ah, Vivien. Her grave is a custom memorial in polished black granite with a carved weeping angel holding a rose. The setting sun makes the stone glow red.
Vivien Jessica Finch
Goodnight, dear heart,
goodnight, goodnight
Oct, 10, 1987–Jul, 24, 2004
I kneel down and touch the smooth stone. How she would have hated this place. This peace. This quiet. This impenetrable air of mourning and stillness. The impulsive, impetuous Vivien with roses in her hair, the one who could never sit still for a moment is not here. I laugh. The sound is loud and strange among the silent tombstones. It disturbs the peace. Perhaps no one has laughed here in centuries.
A strong breeze rushes at my face. I look up, surprised. And suddenly I hear Vivien saying, ‘I’ll come back and haunt you.’
‘You never did come back to haunt me, did you?’ I whisper into the wind.
And I remember her laughing. How she used to laugh. She was wild and beautiful, but never vindictive.
I wonder where she is now.
‘Wherever you are, Vivien, remember I truly loved you,’ I say, and, in the trees, a lone bird calls. I stay a little while longer, but I am restless. For I stand there, a living, breathing mortal, with hot blood flowing in my veins. One day I’ll join them in their repose and their silence, but not yet. I have a life and it’s calling me. I walk away and never look back.
As soon as I get into my car, I call Ella. She picks up on the first ring.
‘Ella,’ I say.
And she starts to weep.
And suddenly I can’t wait to see her. ‘Where are you?’ I ask.
