The Innisfree Poetry Journal
www.innisfreepoetry.org
by Hilary Tham
ON BUYING A BURIAL PLOT ONE SUNNY DAY
I don't know if last night's stars aligned in some mysterious conjunction or a moon-pulled rise in tides or money in the bank moved me to stop at the cemetery and buy a double lot on the brow of a low hill comfortingly near an old friend whose death leached the world of color a few months ago, where tall oaks provide shade gentle as friendship in midday glare; I stand and look over the undulating lawns where grass rises to lap at my feet like waves. Good feng shui I think, good flow of chi, wind and water. I remind myself I am not superstitious, yet peace rests on my eyes like morning light.
The memorial gardens representative— cemeteries embrace euphemisms—offers the extras I can buy now or later, granite bench, flat bronze plaque (standing headstones not allowed), lead liner for the interment site. I look at his face, the bruised shade of his skin and wonder: Does keeping company with the dead darken the aura of people, as the Chinese believe, and would this darkness show in photographs or is it visible only to the living eye?
I supposed the lead lining, required by law, was for sanitation, but he says, "No, it's cosmetic— to prevent the weight of earth from collapsing the coffin, making ugly holes." Later, I tour the other gardens— the Asian garden with mounded graves achingly familiar from childhood, the tall tombstones with photos, one like grandfather's. I take a quick look around the Muslim garden with nameless graves—and toss away the small regret I will not have a headstone to inconvenience the mowers.
I take a last look at my new purchase and note that Joe and I will lie beside Winter when we die— Mrs. Winter already here, the mister still alive. I wish him long life and wonder if he has remarried and whether he will use this space reserved for him or opt to go with a second Mrs. Winter—man proposes and God or others will dispose or dispossess us.
From my hill, I look at the green earth that goes on and on, beyond the horizon, beyond stretch of the eyes, hear the hum of distant traffic, the swish of wind crossing waves of grass and feel buoyant peace. I hope, when I open my hands to the winds and let go this body, this gravity, my children will feel a similar peace, that they will not be afraid.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication
|