A Place Filled With Stories

Well it’s been a rather tough weekend and I have to admit there has been very little writing going on, yet still Bob is ever present recently so I am thankful for that. Since becoming a mum for those precious 12 days nearly 5 years ago, Mother’s Day is one of those days that has been forever changed for me.

Instead of being taken out for food, or showered with gifts and flowers, it is me who buys the flowers and it’s the cemetery regularly frequented by others in a similar situation that I journey to rather than a pub for a meal.

It is surprising just how busy a cemetery can get, for some reason I often think of it as a quiet place,  people are off…well… living. But today it was more than just us and a handful of angel statues gazing down at us from atop their lofty plinths.

Today whole families seemed to have congregated in the cemetery from the very young child tottering in between the grave stones to stand uncertainly in front of a chain barrier unsure whether to (or how) to cross it even though they had no such hesitation running through the grass alongside the dearly departed; to the elderly lady making her regular visit, flowers clutched in frail hands like it is the most previous gift she has to give.

Maybe it was the glorious sunny day that brought the smile to my face at seeing this child at play in the cemetery (to me everything seems to be better in the sunshine) or was it the realisation that children are just as happy playing among the dead as we are apprehensive about stepping on the grass anywhere near a headstone in case we somehow offend the dead?

Perhaps we should take a leaf out of a child’s book and visit the cemetery more often, perhaps to sit and read for awhile to keep the dead company as it were? For why should we not spend time in such peaceful places, there is nothing to fear here and I am sure the dead would be glad of the company once in awhile.

I found myself looking at the various grave stones, reading the names and the dates, wondering what the initials were for in wonderfully exotic sounding names, thinking about all the lives and stories that now reside here, some untold, some tucked away in long forgotten diaries, others still treasured as memories by loved ones and thought wow our whole lives we are surrounded by stories, by lives rich in meaning, if only we could all write our stories down, what would they be like? There would be sadness, there would be joy, tales of adventures or monotony and tragedy coupled with great resilience and steadfast belligerence but the one that echos out to me through all these names and verses is love. Someone out there loved every single one of these people, loved something about them that they come and they sit and they bring flowers and their families (even their dogs) because love endures even after the soil has been thrown and how can they not share at least some of the life they have with someone they love, even if it is for a snapshot of time in an otherwise hectic life?

It might seem like a strange thing to say but I love going to the cemetery because it keeps me grounded, that this life is not forever and that I should live it fully, but it also keeps me close to the ones I have loved deeply and grants me some time to be at peace with the world around me. The cemetery is such a peaceful place, filled with people and their stories much like the head of a writer the only difference is my head is far from peaceful!