It's nothing grandiose. Sitting on the littlest of hills, surrounded by a chain-link fence, just far enough away from everything so that you can barely hear the cars from the nearest paved road. A few trees watch over irregular rows of hewn stones, and the bones of those dearly departed.
I have come here at times alone -- to think, and to talk. To my grandma (mamaw), or maybe just to the wind. But I have not been here in a long while. Too long. Usually it is quiet. I find a peacefulness here. But not today.
Today is Decoration Day at the cemetery where most of my mom's family is buried. It's a day for socializing. I speak to relatives. Most I know and recognize. Some I remember after they introduce themselves. A couple I pretend to know and wait until I can grab the arm of an aunt or uncle later to ask who that was.
"There's fewer of us every year."
My youngest aunt says this to me, perhaps verbalizing what others are only thinking. I give a resigned nod. Though I'm not certain about every year, I definitely notice it this year. Of twenty-nine first cousins, I only count ten of us there, including me. Five of my mom's seven living brothers and sisters are there. This is often the only time of the year I see my one uncle and aunt. They have a grandson that looks to be twelve or thirteen that I probably haven't seen since he was a baby.
Don't get me wrong, there were still a lot of people there. Just not as many as I remember. The sparseness perhaps exacerbated by the presence of two giant barren trees in the midst of the cemetery. For as long as I can remember, those two trees provided ample shade near most of my family's graves. They played the songs of the wind. But something has killed them since the last time I was here. And as I stand there in the unrelenting sun, I realize like too much of life, I have only come to truly appreciate them in their absence.
One highlight of the day is my 86-year-old great uncle. He is the last one living of his siblings, the last link to my mamaw's generation. And he has no kids, so it has been left to my mother and a couple of her siblings to see after him. On this day, my youngest uncle has gone by to get him and rolled him out to a shady spot. There he sits in his wheelchair as people walk up and talk to him.
I get into a conversation with an uncle and a cousin about my great grandmother, who was half-Cherokee. My uncle did some genealogy research a few years ago and tells us that during the Indian Removal my great-grandmother and her family identified themselves as "black Dutch," denying their ancestry in fear of being sent West. These are the stories I love, and crave.
But it's a hotter-than-normal May morning, and with the lack of much shade, we are not long at the cemetery. After maybe an hour, several of us head over to fave aunt's for a cookout and more family time. My great uncle is there, too. I watch him eating and I wish all his days were this good. He was recently diagnosed with cancer and decided against treatment.
Later I see that he has just about dozed off. One of the kids runs by and bumps his chair, jolting him awake. He smiles at her and nods. And in that instant -- the kind eyes, the almost sad smile -- I see my mamaw, so clearly it scares me.
Eventually, after everyone has eaten, another uncle sits down at the piano. My mom and two of my aunts join him to sing, mostly old gospel hymns. Like so much of the rest of this day, this is a family tradition.
During one of the songs, I start to feel overcome with emotion. Maybe it's thinking about my aunts and uncles getting older, or maybe it's just the culmination of the entire day. Whatever it is, it hits me out of nowhere. I hurry to the bathroom so no one will see, close the door, and I sob. For thirty seconds. Then I'm OK again.
I get a moment away from the others to speak to one of my older cousins. I tell him I wonder what will happen to Decoration Day once our parents' generation is gone. He says it will be up to us. I know "us" may only mean a few of us. But I feel better knowing it matters to him.
Tradition, family, the future -- I ponder these things often the next several days. And I decide I should see about planting a new tree.
"On the other side / Do you ever see me cry / Do you know how much I miss you / Wish I could have said goodbye..."
I have come here at times alone -- to think, and to talk. To my grandma (mamaw), or maybe just to the wind. But I have not been here in a long while. Too long. Usually it is quiet. I find a peacefulness here. But not today.
Today is Decoration Day at the cemetery where most of my mom's family is buried. It's a day for socializing. I speak to relatives. Most I know and recognize. Some I remember after they introduce themselves. A couple I pretend to know and wait until I can grab the arm of an aunt or uncle later to ask who that was.
"There's fewer of us every year."
My youngest aunt says this to me, perhaps verbalizing what others are only thinking. I give a resigned nod. Though I'm not certain about every year, I definitely notice it this year. Of twenty-nine first cousins, I only count ten of us there, including me. Five of my mom's seven living brothers and sisters are there. This is often the only time of the year I see my one uncle and aunt. They have a grandson that looks to be twelve or thirteen that I probably haven't seen since he was a baby.
Don't get me wrong, there were still a lot of people there. Just not as many as I remember. The sparseness perhaps exacerbated by the presence of two giant barren trees in the midst of the cemetery. For as long as I can remember, those two trees provided ample shade near most of my family's graves. They played the songs of the wind. But something has killed them since the last time I was here. And as I stand there in the unrelenting sun, I realize like too much of life, I have only come to truly appreciate them in their absence.
One highlight of the day is my 86-year-old great uncle. He is the last one living of his siblings, the last link to my mamaw's generation. And he has no kids, so it has been left to my mother and a couple of her siblings to see after him. On this day, my youngest uncle has gone by to get him and rolled him out to a shady spot. There he sits in his wheelchair as people walk up and talk to him.
I get into a conversation with an uncle and a cousin about my great grandmother, who was half-Cherokee. My uncle did some genealogy research a few years ago and tells us that during the Indian Removal my great-grandmother and her family identified themselves as "black Dutch," denying their ancestry in fear of being sent West. These are the stories I love, and crave.
But it's a hotter-than-normal May morning, and with the lack of much shade, we are not long at the cemetery. After maybe an hour, several of us head over to fave aunt's for a cookout and more family time. My great uncle is there, too. I watch him eating and I wish all his days were this good. He was recently diagnosed with cancer and decided against treatment.
Later I see that he has just about dozed off. One of the kids runs by and bumps his chair, jolting him awake. He smiles at her and nods. And in that instant -- the kind eyes, the almost sad smile -- I see my mamaw, so clearly it scares me.
Eventually, after everyone has eaten, another uncle sits down at the piano. My mom and two of my aunts join him to sing, mostly old gospel hymns. Like so much of the rest of this day, this is a family tradition.
During one of the songs, I start to feel overcome with emotion. Maybe it's thinking about my aunts and uncles getting older, or maybe it's just the culmination of the entire day. Whatever it is, it hits me out of nowhere. I hurry to the bathroom so no one will see, close the door, and I sob. For thirty seconds. Then I'm OK again.
I get a moment away from the others to speak to one of my older cousins. I tell him I wonder what will happen to Decoration Day once our parents' generation is gone. He says it will be up to us. I know "us" may only mean a few of us. But I feel better knowing it matters to him.
Tradition, family, the future -- I ponder these things often the next several days. And I decide I should see about planting a new tree.
"On the other side / Do you ever see me cry / Do you know how much I miss you / Wish I could have said goodbye..."
