When I was a small child my cousins and I used to play ghosts in the graveyard. We didn't actually play hide and seek in a cemetery, instead we did our best to scare one another in the dark expanse of my grandparent's land. It was a good setup for a child's imagination in the sparsely inhabited region of South Eastern Kentucky where there are no city lights for miles, tales of wild animals and never-seen infamous outlaws that lived somewhere over the mountain. This imaginary graveyard was far more frightening than any I had ever visited. I have had relatives and friends be lain to rest in various cemeteries, and yet none I have ever visited beyond the funeral. This isn't for lack of caring or ill will; they are not accessible to me either by land or intimacy. There is one grave I do visit. In my Mother's front yard beneath four to five feet of hard clay in a wooden box constructed by my brother holds the resting place of the closest entity that I have lost in my life thus far. The feeling of being able to visit this place initially helped me grieve and now gives me a surge of fond memories of my dog that passed after eleven years of great companionship. I know that I am fortunate in having loved ones still alive and in my life. The importance of cemeteries has not been prevalent for me as it has for others I know. On the anniversary of the day that someone passes on to wherever it is they go, people kneel upon their grave sites and pay homage. Just as the funeral ritual is instrumental to the grieving process, so is the physical place to go back to time and time again. Graveyards make me think of loss and beauty; funerals make me think of myself pretending to be stoic regardless of how I think I can act or how I feel. With every funeral there is someone that depends on strength outside of them and hopefully someone whom is able to give that strength. When the time comes for me to bring flowers and try to reconcile an ocean of feelings, cemeteries shall take on a new meaning not just intertwined with childhood games and bagpipes ( the only thing I remember from my late grandfather's funeral). I hope the shoulder I have been able to give is reciprocated and accepted with grace.

7/9/09
by Michelle Wombles