The Inbetween

"Here in this circle of stones, a cold finger touching down his spine, eyes staring with hostility. They are around. He is home."

 

I do not know the specific date for this occasion. My parents were the one keeping track of it. Whenever they bought bouquets of chrysanthemums or carnations or daisies wrapped up in old soggy newspapers, I knew that after our church service and lunch for the day, we would be inviting ourselves amongst the death and visiting our dead relatives. I have been going to the cemetery with my parents since I was young. And each time we visit, the gravestones we put flowers at will just become more and more one year after another. It is not that I have relatives dying every year. Some years, yes. But other years, my parents just decided to pay visit to some older relatives I have not heard about.

My maternal's grandmother will always be the first. Her grave is the first to arrive. (Not that she has died first, mind you.) My uncle's ashes were buried with her. Then, my paternal grandfather. (Now he was the one who has died first; my dad was only 11.) Next to him, my paternal grandmother. See, my grandma is just a paranoid soul. Ever since my grandpa died, she has been trodding through life expecting the next step to be the last. Was never optimistic about life. Was a pain in my ass; and I to hers. Was a bunch of problems. But when she died, I could not stop crying. She was the last of the grandparents to die. Next, is my maternal grandfather. We always kind of have trouble finding her grave.

There used to be a clear path leading to my paternal grandparents' graves once upon a time. But people just die so quickly and the cemetery does not have any plans to expand, the roads were made into lying beds of the other world. Cars have to drive past carefully. Sometimes the roads are so narrow and when two cars rub shoulders, to dodge a scratch on their beloveds they rather knock down someone's unfortunate grave. Oops. What did they say about buying houses at the side of the streets?

The quiet moments. It just makes you want to cry. My parents will always turn to us sisters and jokingly ask if we have anything to say to our dead grandparents before ending it with a chuckle. Truth is, we do tal to our dead grandparents when we are there. Just not verbally. Hey, how's it going in the other world? You know, I will be graduating from college this year. I will be going to University soon. No boyfriend yet. The boys just cannot stop being annoying. Yeah. All is well. I suspect there are tears always in my father's eyes.

I took the camera along last year. I do not remember why. I just decided hey, I love cemeteries. How come I have never taken pictures of it? With an extra eye arms in hand, I seemed to take in more than I usually do that year.

I noticed a bunch of similiar gravestones near the always-never-open-might-as-well-be-torn-down "chapel" near the exit. I noticed the Australian pilots/soldiers who have died in some war unknown to me were buried in the cemetery as well. And I heard about this special gravestone with a marbled dog figure on it. The man was Andrew. Ever since Andrew died, his loyal dog has been going to his grave every single day to just lie there. The dog eventually died by the grave. The caretakers of the cemetery decided to pay tribute to this loyal dog, made a marbled figurine of him and lay it atop Andrew's grave.

I went back the next day after college to take pictures of these spots. It took me awhile to find Andrew-and-dog's grave. He was a loyal dog, was he not? Just makes you want to cry. And those brave air force teams too. Oh the sweet sweet words their families left for them. Some were as young as I was, some merely a few years older. Death is such an unpredictable thing.

I have not gotten the chance to go through those pictures yet. Just the one above.

A junior of mine from the school band died when she was only sixteen. She had a bone marrow cancer. She was healed. Then she died. (Ain't that always the case?) I was there at her funeral. It just makes me wonder how much she is missing out on life. How many memorable moments she will not be able to include in her photo albums and journals. In her mind. Now a dead static piece of brain. Her parents cried their souls out at the memorial service. The band played a fucking awful tune I did not think they paid enough respect. And it was not because they were crying while playing either. They just plain sucked after my year left. The family made a puzzle for her. The puzzle she has been trying to put together for a while. They pieced it together for her and buried it along with her six feet underground.

I wanted to see her last year while I was there. I could not find her grave anymore. It tore me to pieces.

There is this silent air flowing around. Nothing eerie. Nothing chilly. Just solace. Something peaceful. A place for you to have your quiet lonesome lunch. A place for you to reflect your current life. Nothing suicidal. Just meditative. A place for you to bring your partner to deep into the night. Make out. Make love. Nobody is watching. Do you want to count those in the ground? Nothing disgusting. Just kinky.