One
A Pink Marble Stone
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Driving the moderately long distance to this cemetery today caused me to remember why our burial plots are located here. Bill came across the adjoining sections of ground several years ago in a newspaper ad, and as usual, he could not pass up what he considered to be a "good deal." The cemetery, established in the early 1900’s, contains many age-worn, unique, upright monuments, which stand in the oldest sections of the 135 acres. Many of the engraved inscriptions on the weathered marble stones are sad yet intriguing to read. The short life spans of children, engraved on the small moss covered monuments, are especially touching.
There are two large oak trees near Bill’s monument, and though void of leaves, they extend their long branches as if to stand guard in the stillness. A short distance down the narrow, winding road, I can see the tall oak tree, which stands over burial grounds belonging to Jim, Bill's oldest brother. Bill’s older brothers, Jim and Howard, had various health problems over the years, and he would sometimes teasingly remind them that he was much healthier than they were. I am sure he never dreamed his life would end first; that his remains would be the first to lie under these trees...beneath this earth.
Today is Bill’s birthday. He would have been sixty-nine years old, and I have brought birthday balloons for his gravesite. The three balloons, multi-colored and helium-filled, had bumped vigorously around the inside of the car when I attempted to remove them. I could vividly imagine Bill’s amusement at my attempts to hold onto the twisting, turning strings. In spite of my efforts and to my dismay, the swirling wind soon prevailed, and I watched helplessly as two balloons broke away and rushed quickly over the cemetery grounds into the sky.
As the last balloon with the inscription “I love you,” was set free, I hoped to see it fly higher than a balloon would normally be able to go. At first, a swift downdraft caught it, and it collided with one gravestone and then another. My hopes and expectations faded as it headed for a group of trees. Suddenly, as if by some guided force, a strong gust of wind grabbed the fluttering object, and it gradually began an upward drift. I stood by the roadside and watched the balloon's gradual but steady rise. It climbed higher and higher toward Heaven. It finally became but a tiny speck in the pale blue sky. As it disappeared from sight, I thought, "Surely God is watching."
Bill’s gravestone is easy to spot. The unique color of the marble, a deep gray with a dusk-rose tint, causes it to stand out among the other stones, which are various shades of gray. When I first looked at the monument following its placement, it occurred to me that he would not approve of the color of the marble. He would have preferred something more masculine. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful stone, and there is no remedy for it now.
On the path to Bill’s gravesite, there are a few gravestones with unusual names. When Bill and I visited this cemetery in the past, he often made some sort of witty observation about the names on certain stones. He did not intend to be disrespectful of the departed in any way. It was just another opportunity to use his dry but typical sense of humor to make me smile. He had a one-liner about graveyards that he thought was funny. When we would drive past a graveyard, he would sometimes say, “People are just dying to get in that place.”
I began to visit Bill’s grave soon after the funeral, and I noticed a nearby, solitary grave by the roadside. The artificial flowers in the single grave marker’s vase were pale and gray in color. They looked as if they had been there for a very long time. Now, when I place new flowers on Bill’s grave, I leave some on that grave as well. Each time, I think about this man’s life and I wonder, "Did his loved ones live far away, or is there no one left to bring flowers?" Whatever the reason, I hope his memory is still cherished by someone, somewhere. Will anyone bring flowers for our graves after I am gone?
When I was growing up, Decoration Day or Memorial Day was a cherished annual custom. It honored those who gave their life for freedom, but it was also for remembering loved ones who had died. We always placed flowers on the graves of our family members. Today, it is unusual to see people of the younger generation coming to the graveyard to place flowers, and I fear this old, cherished tradition may be vanishing. I still remember climbing the narrow, steep pathway leading to the small family graveyard on top of the hill. The cemetery, surrounded by fields of wildflowers, was located just across the road from my grandmother’s house.
I had not known most of the people whose names I saw inscribed on the time-worn headstones, but I listened when the grownups recalled memories of loved ones gone. I heard about my maternal grandfather, who died at age forty-two in the line of duty as a county sheriff. I remember seeing the graves of my three stillborn little brothers. Only rocks marked their small graves. I went back to the cemetery a few years ago with my sister Kathleen and her family, and the rocks were still there. Our grandfather’s headstone, because it is so aged and worn, had separated from its stone base and had fallen over on its side. It had been lying on the ground until we set it back in place.
Old wives’ tales, much like other cherished traditions, tend to pass down from generation to generation. When I was young, children viewed graveyards as very scary places, probably because of the tales and superstitions that children learned very early growing up among the Appalachian Mountains. As I make my way to our gravestone, a few of these tales come to mind. Some folks would say, "You must always hold your breath when you drive past a cemetery." If you breathe, you could inhale the spirit of someone recently buried and end up in the graveyard yourself. They warned, "You should never step on a grave for any reason." If you stepped on a grave, you might disturb the spirit of the person who was buried there. The spirit might later reveal itself as a ghost, or show up later in the night to haunt your dreams.
One wives’ tale related to longevity. I distinctly remember it because I did it so many times with friends and playmates. First, you pick a dandelion from the yard or field and you blow on it with all your might. The seeds left on the head of the flower were the number of years you had left to live. We kids would blow on dozens of flowers while sitting in the grass. Our hope was to find that special dandelion, which after the very best blowing would retain most of its seeds.
My mother and grandmother told us it was good luck to find a clover with four leaves. Searching among the vast patches of clover could keep us out of trouble and occupied for hours. They also said, "If you see a shooting star and make a wish before it disappears from sight, it is sure to come true." I remember gathering with the neighborhood kids on the front porch or in the yard until bedtime. We would gaze up at the stars, waiting with childlike anticipation; hoping to see a blazing comet streak across the night sky.
Mothers often invented or used these old adages or superstitions in order to provide a diversion to occupy their children's mind and time. However, the embellishment of many of these tales over the years caused them to be somewhat laughable. Ridiculous or not, some things learned as a child are obviously tucked away in the subconscious. We sometimes act upon these learned beliefs without conscious thought. As I walk among these graves today, I still find myself being mindful of where I walk...using great care not to step directly on a grave.
The Earth is still bare where they buried the ashes, and the single rose I keep there is still in place. Once again, I notice that the urn burial site seems to be in an odd location. It lies to the left and several feet down from the face of the monument. It is not in line with the headstone, as one would expect. I have been meaning to inquire about this at the cemetery office. My first thought was the adjoining grave was perhaps too close, and then I wondered what real difference it would make if I knew why they buried the urn in that particular spot.
As I look upon the small patch of disturbed ground, I am grateful Bill had insisted on cremation. It is painful to think his poor body could be lying there beneath the cold earth, and I must quickly erase the distressing thought from my mind. I talk to Bill when I visit his grave. I tell him how much I miss him and how lonely my life is without him. One day, our youngest son, John, reminded me, "Dad is not there." In my heart, I know what he says is true. Somehow, I feel closer to him in the place that holds his earthly remains.
Standing here among these many graves, reminds me that the certainty of death and the likelihood of suffering remain mysteries of life that are difficult to comprehend. Each of these stones has its own story to tell; some more tragic than mine. No one can judge, make complete sense of, or know the extent of another person’s suffering, unless they have walked in their shoes. During my difficult battle with breast cancer, I understood what facing death feels like. I realized my condition could well be fatal, but with treatment, I still had hope. Bill had to wake up every day acutely aware that his death was certain. It must have been an unspeakable weight for the heart and soul.
Each new day, I must confront the task of coping with my grief. The feelings of emptiness and sorrow are still fresh, and it seems as if it were only yesterday that Bill died. My thoughts are often consumed with the question, "Why such a dreadful, cruel death." Perhaps I do not need to understand, but only to accept that God had a different plan. Sometimes, sorrow eases and peace comes to linger for a while, but grief must be borne by someone. During these times, I imagine the Lord must have shifted my grief burden onto His broad shoulders.
It is surreal to see my name and date of birth carved onto the left side of the wide marble monument...waiting for completion. At first, I anxiously try to avoid looking at the right side of the stone, but soon my eyes come to rest on his name (William K Knight, February 15, 1936—August 5, 2004.) A wise person once observed that the short hyphenated space between the date of birth and date of death on a gravestone represents a person’s entire lifetime. It is indeed a reminder of the brevity of life. Seeing the date of Bill’s death on the muted pink headstone reawakens sadness and draws me back to a sinking reality. I will not see him again this side of Heaven, but I am thankful for the forty-six years we had together. They were years of caring, sharing, and raising two wonderful children. We shared good times, difficult times, happy and sad times, and times of contentment while growing old together. It all ended too soon.
It is difficult to go on alone and to resume life in this new role as widow. I feel as if I am not the same person. People often tell me, "It will get easier with time", but I remain haunted by the despair and hopelessness of the past two years. I relive those dreadful months in thoughts that come in the morning when I wake up, follow me around in the daytime, and put me to sleep at night. I did my best to help Bill live, but my efforts were in vain. My foe was too strong...too formidable. I have some comfort in knowing that his poor, frail body, almost destroyed by a horrific illness, is now free from all wretchedness, pain and suffering.
Standing beside Bill's grave today, my heart still agonizes when I remember the misery he had to endure during his desperate struggle with a disease called ALS. Sadly, I remember how it all began.
