The county cemetery is sunny and peaceful. A few families are scattered across the grounds. People glance at us, then turn away. I’m sure they assume we are here to mourn someone; perhaps I’m the son and we’ve come to visit my father’s grave.
“There’s a bench over there,” Patricia says, pointing. “It’s probably best to sit there instead of at a graveside. You never know if someone might come to visit the one we choose.”
We sit down on the bench.
“Just sit in silence for a few moments,” she says. “Try not to think about anything.”
Right.
She gazes out across the lawn and watches one of the families for awhile. I try to let my mind go blank, but it’s even harder than it seems.
“If you have to focus on something, try to imagine what sort of lives the people buried here must have led,” she says. “Don’t worry about trying to contact anyone specific, but just...be open to the stories that surround you.”
I sigh and follow her gaze to the family. There is an older woman and three younger ones--probably daughters. The four of them surround a headstone silently. They seem to be holding a moment of silence for whoever they have lost. After several seconds, they turn to leave. Tentative conversation begins within the little group. Now I can see that they have left behind what looks like a handmade bouquet, maybe drawn together from the family garden. It sits in an understated vase, a lone tribute to whoever lies beneath it--the one who won’t be journeying back home with them.
Even from this distance, the engraving on the headstone is large enough to read. Henry Carver. Father, husband, friend. So plainly stated for what must have been such a full life. Is that all there is to death? A few words on stone, a compulsory visit every few months?
I’ve seen plenty of funerals. Most of them were highly religious and full of stilted ceremony. Many people in attendance seemed more focused on following the steps of the traditions than reflecting on the dead or comforting those around them. A few people always stood out to me; the ones who could not contain their grief, or the ones who lingered by open caskets looking silently down at the body--these groups of people always seemed more genuine. They did not seem afraid of death, or of the experience of the funeral.
“You’re thinking too much, John,” Patricia says, cutting across my thoughts. “Don’t analyze, receive.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” I ask her.
She smiles, still watching the people ahead of us.
“Fine. How do you suggest I receive, then?”
“I told you. Focus on the stories that surround you. You already know your own story. Thinking about funerals you’ve been to in the past won’t push the limits of your awareness. Try to be open to something new.”
“How did you know--“
“I know what I’m doing, John,” she says. “Trust me.”
I regard her warily and try not to think about anything incriminating.
“It’s not mind reading, exactly,” she continues, turning her gaze back in front of us and squinting into the rising sun, “it’s more like a global awareness...a heightened awareness of the senses.”
“And you didn’t tell me you could do that before because...”
“I thought it would have more of an impact now.”
“You’re not wrong,” I mutter.
“So. I repeat. Open your mind to new information. That grave in front of us, the one you were watching. What kind of man do you think Henry was in life? Don’t get sidetracked by your own memories. Don’t let your own thoughts and reactions color your observations. You must use them, but only as someone might use a hand to perform automatic writing, or use his eyes to look at Tarot cards. The answers you seek are right in front of you. You just have to know how to find them.”
I look back at the grave and try to do what she has said. I don’t expect it to be easy, and it isn’t.
At first I just see the headstone, and the information carved on it. I remember my initial reaction, that it’s so little information for an entire life. Don’t let your own thoughts and reactions color your observations. Right.
Then I find myself imagining what Henry must look like now, buried underground. I’m pretty sure that’s not what Patricia meant, either, and I try to push the thought from my mind. I focus instead on the mourning family that had stood in front of us moments before. I’d assumed it had been a wife and her daughters. Pretty likely given the ages of them and the way they had interacted with each other. But what about that interaction had made me so certain?
The answers you seek are right in front of you.
The tentative conversation. Clearly these graveside visits were a relatively new addition to their lives. The moments of silence were the result of wounds still freshly felt. They had not yet become habit. The family didn’t yet have to work for memories of the one they had lost to fill their heads.
The handmade bouquet. Rosemary, and roses with natural imperfections. Picked just that morning, from a backyard with a gate and a dog who still didn’t understand quite where her master had gone.
The daughters. One was struggling to deal with her emotions, another had been there everyday until the death. The third...she was a little harder to read, but had probably comforted herself with details, things to prepare for the funeral.
The wife, the mother--painful holes made up her life, but she was healing slowly.
I glance at Patricia, shaken, and say, “So. I repeat: what else are you, besides a librarian?”
She looks at me then and smiles. “Someone who has learned how to see.”
