Tales from the Graveyard

For many, it can be hard to envision that even the most animated of all people can be reduced to ash and dust. This is what we call death in all its glory and its gloom. It is to extract the soul from one’s mortal body and take us to some unknown beyond, or to vanquish ourselves all together.
The cemetery remains our ultimate final residence; given to us by our loved ones or by the means of the public. I thought of this once as I went for a walk on my usual route which frequented by the old graveyard. On this particular visit, the gates of the local cemetery caught my eye. The light had transcended down against the iron cast fence and had burst out dazzling beams of reds and oranges from the rust. I sauntered into the cemetery and found the place the same as it had always been; indifference hidden behind the stones and tombs that laid out beautifully in misshapen ribbons of shadowed gray and moss. There was a strange calm flow of light and shadow across all of the foliage within this forsaken, yet overpopulated place. The trees stood in solemn reverence, protecting the headstones from weather as their roots entangled the dead below. They let off vibrant greens cascading across the ground like water. Headstones were weathered into dappled markers with the passage of time. Most of the headstones found themselves dating within the 19th century. Many were simple grave markers for children mingled in the midst of larger markers. And the foliage encompasses it all by slowly twisting its ivy coils around the perimeter and everything within.

Rotting is the competition here; as is becoming forgotten. Only the raised tombs of the once wealthy stood out magnificently amongst the humble graves of the ordinary, their stones slanting forward or backward from the harshness of time. Call it a morbid intrigue if you like, the fact that I find this place fascinating. It is like transference beyond this ‘veil’ that separates the living from the dead and brings us into unknown, unseen relationships.

Here the dead live within themselves. It is imperative to note that death is inevitably a part of life. Out of reverence for the dead and throughout the centuries all civilizations have created some type of burial ritual for their dearly departed. It isn’t just a way of going about and discarding dead things, it is much deeper than that. As such, it can be as ordinary as it can be in comparison to time itself. The dead are among us, and we show them respect by keeping the place looking as nice as we remember them. This is to say that the commonplace cemetery is kept well and in good order.
There are those who believe the cemetery is scary or a dreary place that one shouldn’t be curious about the deceased. Do they believe this to be morbid? Others see it is as place of bitter sweetness full of solemnity and respect, a place to weep and to contemplate. Possibly even more necessary, the cemetery is a place to show respect and love of our dearly departed, to never forget them; that their chronicle may live on upon the wagging tongues of mankind.
I have come to find, due to my own experience that the moaning ghost was once one who had fallen into complacency and habit; whereas he stood, living already dead before he really died. And they laid him in an indifferent box, in an indifferent plot, along with his new indifferent neighbors. The light and shadow that illuminates their memoirs and surveys the bittersweet calm of death calls out hoarse and solemn whisperings, like smoke.
You can only hear them if you listen with the utmost intent. They weep and moan and rejoice one with another alongside the weathering of their stones.
They speak of many things, but there was one that struck me that day. Quintus Ennius once said “Let no one weep for me, or celebrate my funeral with mourning; for I still live, as I pass to and fro through the mouths of men.”
I lengthily considered this as the air moved whisperings through the trees, and said to myself: “Quintus Ennius must have lived the life that reserved him a place forever in the minds of men.” This brought me to the question that made me pause in observing my surroundings. Who are we to be content? To be idle while the world offers us a lifetime worthy of being historically noted? We do not die the day we kick the bucket, but we die the day our stories have drifted away from the minds of men. That is to say, to never be lazy in this probationary state of existence because it’s your chance to really prove yourself and then entertain and share your wisdom for the generations after us. To direct our children and children’s children through the bleak realities of life, to enlighten them about being ensnared in joy, bliss, sadness, and immeasurable grief. And to teach them all of these things by the means of our own experience in the single century we abide in. If we live an accomplished life, then in a way, we live forever in the hearts of men.
Those who have been immortalized in history books are permanently plastered on those pages because they have done one of two things: overcome that which was around them, or overcome that which was in themselves. Fear is the one thing that drives us to hold back. But, why? What is the worst thing that could happen? Any failure that plagues us can be fixed. That’s the beauty of life and the saying "Life moves on". I have grown to know that we cannot waste our time because death is ever vigilant and often unfair. Our Grimm Reaper stands in close proximity from the day we are born and stands ever ready to draw just a little closer as the days pass by. Never be content, never find complacency, and never fall into mediocre habits. We are to live, and live to the fullest lest our judgment day comes as does the realization that there was too much to have missed in life. When death comes, I find solace in the belief that there should be no resentments, nor regrets. Just peace and the knowledge to know my story I created here in life will live on through the minds, mouths, and hearts of mankind.