Contemplation

                                                                      Contemplation





         Oh, well this is just perfect! I have been coming here almost every evening for as long as I can remember.  It’s the only place I have ever been that I can relax and be alone with my thoughts. Some nights I begin my walk under the Meyer’s Cemetery archway and some nights, like tonight, I start from the back of the old torn down mausoleum and work my way to the front drive. 

        And now tonight, of all nights, someone has seen fit to ruin my evening by showing up with a carload of people.  I know they are probably just here to pay their respects to some long dead relative, but for Pete’s sake, can’t a woman get some time to herself?

          I know it sounds weird or morbid, but it truly is peaceful out here. Very few people even remember this old graveyard exists. It’s been decades since any new graves have been added. Leonard Johansen used to keep the place nice and tidy, but over the years, what with his arthritis and all, he only manages to make it out here once a month or so to mow the grass. 

          I have found that within the peaceful serenity of these graves, I can shut out all noise from the world.  I have a very large family and well, it’s very difficult in our home to find a spot to be alone where you can just wind down after a long day of feeding and picking up after two rambunctious boys and three giggling daughters.  My family understands, though.  They let me have my evening walks, and I let them stay up late to watch television.  Not a bad bargain in my books, if I do say so myself.

          I love listening to the wind blowing peacefully through the trees.  There is a small pond just on the other side of the hill and some evenings, in the summer, I can hear the bullfrogs singing to each other. I usually stay until just after sunset.

Most of the head stones have been weathered down so much that you can barely make out a name and date.  In the far eastern corner of the cemetery a small head stone reads Opal Brown, 1882 – 1882. Another very old gravestone simply reads Sarah F. Dunkle, 1863 –1952. Isn’t that amazing?  Sometimes I like to imagine what the lives of these people were like.

          There is another grave that I  frequently visit.  It’s a double head stone of a husband and wife.  But it’s the wife I am drawn to for some reason, Ethel May Koppa 1921 – 1966. I don’t know why, but I feel a sort of bond with her.  I often wonder what her life must have been like, if she had children, was she a good cook?  Sometimes I pretend she had a large family like me, and when I let things get to me,  I think to my self, what would Ethel May do?

            That’s exactly what I was thinking as that car pulled into the drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. I should just turn right around and head back home since my evening sanctuary had been violated, but something made me hesitate as I heard the crunch of another set of tires pull in and park next to the first car. 

            Two men and two women got out of the first car. They all appeared to be in their late forties, early fifties. They hadn’t noticed me yet, so I stepped back behind the old dead tree next to the Johansen’s plots. One of the men from the first car walked over and leaned into the window of the second car and said something to the driver.  I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but eventually the driver of the second car got out, but she didn’t look at all happy about being here.  She looked like someone I used to know, in fact, there was something vaguely familiar about all of them.  I tried to remember if I had ever seen them here before, but it was like that feeling you get when something is right there on the tip of your tongue, and you just can’t quite get it. 

            They began walking down the path in my direction and so rather than appearing to be lurking in a cemetery, I stepped out from behind the tree and resumed my walk.  The somber group walked in silence past me. I thought it was a bit rude that they didn’t acknowledge my presence with even a simple head nod, but grieving people do odd things. 

            I was going to continue on with my walk, but when I looked back, I noticed that they had gone down the path leading to Ethel May’s plot.  There were only Koppa’s in that section, so intrigued, I decided to follow at a discreet distance.  Maybe they were relatives of Ethel May?

            I couldn’t believe it! They stopped right in front of Ethel May’s grave. Of all the strange luck! These people must be her children.  And then there was that feeling again.  I had the strange feeling that I knew these people, and yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. 

          The woman from the second car knelt down and placed a single white rose on the ground in front of the grave. Then one by one, the others knelt in turn and placed single white roses on the ground.  It brought tears to my eyes. 

          White roses were my favorite flowers!