Cometary Visit

Oh, how the dead arise,
Not in body, but in spirit,
Their decay is eternal,
Yet, their ambiance immortal.
Walking in the atmosphere,
Yet, never moving,
Their ambiance strikes,
Attacking the very ground they inhabit.
Their remains are forever decayed,
But their impressions are earthbound,
Leaving in their wake,
Their presence.

The bittersweet tragedy of death is never more powerful than when facing the countless graves at a cemetery. An atmosphere of sorrow thickens the air. Mortality, not surprisingly, becomes present in the mind of the weary observer. Uneasiness becomes prominent, knowing they too will succumb to such depressive occurrences as death. For one day, I became that weary observer, walking amongst the graves and absorbing the knowledge that enveloped my mind.

My grandfather passed away when I was young. He was buried in Willamette National Cemetery here in Oregon. We were present at his ceremony. However, living in Virginia, we didn’t have the ability to visit his grave. It wasn’t until the assignment that I actually dared to reappear at the site. Honestly, I was very apprehensive. I had avoided this for a very long time. Not sure I was capable of viewing such a conspicuous tomb, as this had become for our family, I didn’t want to go alone. After many countless hours, and endless courage, I dared to go bringing along with me my two year old.

When I arrived, I remembered the spot where the ceremony took place, though I had only been there once in January of 1999. I sat in the car before I could actually venture into such a still environment. I sat back and watched other families mourning their loved ones. Gathering more courage, I unstrapped my son from his car seat and left the car. Now, a problem arose. I couldn’t remember exactly where he was buried. I knew the general area, but their were countless graves that could have possibly been his. Despite this, I was a bit relieved. I knew it was inevitable that if I walked amongst them I was sure to find his. However, I wasn’t sure I was ready to see it firsthand.

I walked with my son amongst the tombs. It seemed unnaturally silent. As if the world recognized the tragedy and respected it. All I heard were the sounds of nature, no cars, no “pesky” neighbors, no unwanted disturbances. Coming from a larger family, it was hard to conceive such quietness could exist. I watched my son, in his young face, he seemed not worried. Having no understanding of where we were or what we were doing, he seemed content, undisturbed. He never even knew my grandfather.