Not only does the ‘Grim Reaper’ harvest our beloveds with his
Scythe but we are now also prevented from mourning them at their graves.
I visit the ‘Cemetaire’ of peaceful Lourmarin in France, which is gently
cushioned at the top of a hill, and sloping down at the back. The elaborate,
ancient graves nestle between low walls and ravaged Cypresses.
In a peaceful little corner, low-lying branches have been
cut away to expose a small forest of vertical, cylindrical stems, the canopy
above, gently protecting the grave enfolded in its leafy cave.
White, beige, brown and charcoal-black, green and rust,
gently covers the tombs of their beloved’s dust.
Timeless horizontal posies of multi-colored porcelain
flowers, bedeck the surfaces, factory fresh, without crack, chip or blemish….
Shoulders hunched, his face darkly stubbled, a widower
softly shuffles past on fine gravel, thick lashes wet with tears…...
Family mausoleums, grouped together on the terraced slope
below, unite the bones of generations of relations.
Not only do we not dare visit the graves of our finally lost
friends and families, in life, whom we love, are scattered across the globe.
Once dead, the ritual of remembering with respect, is lost,
and eventually, the memory too.
A crisp breeze ruffles the petals of bouquets of fragrant
flowers and dusts away the repression of memories, enabling me to recall
countless visits together with my parents, to the family grave in the Rebecca
Street Cemetery.
Our floral offerings were put in vases, which were
positioned on all four corners of the granite tomb.
My task was to rinse the removable ceramic or metal vases
under the tap, which nestled between the graves some distance away. The hem of
my dress would offer transparent comfort, as barrier between my toddler’s hand
and flaming steel carrying lukewarm water. Sacrifice it was not, as my lips,
prepared in pout, would kiss the Angel sentries encountered on my way…..
Our black Desoto desolately stood under the stringy shade of
a Peppercorn tree, boot raised and filled with stacks of old newspapers and
watering can. After the silent ritual of arranging the flowers, the stalks and
leaves that had been trimmed, would be neatly rolled up in the paper,
scattered images proclaiming the Profumo Scandal or Sputniks to the moon. The
vibrating air, cocooning the car, would sting your face with a wave of steam,
as the doors were respectfully slammed shut.
Then, the only fear I had was that of sliding into the world
of death beneath the soft graveyard-ground.
This ritual with our dead was routinely carried out, as an
unquestionable part of life and my parents would be in pensive mood for some
time, after these dedicated excursions of remembrance.
The hot sun was kind enough to wait until we turned the
corner, before sucking the moisture from the modestly colored flowers and
shriveling their tilting heads. We knew this to be true, because this image
awaited us on our return.
The red and moist ground-heaps of the fresh graves, were
always covered with layers of multi-colored bouquets. The sun would even
attempt to drink from the glass-covered, plastic wreaths, but did not succeed.
This we also knew to be true since the little condensed drops would be hanging
by their necks from the inside of the glass dome covers and drop onto the
handwritten cards below, streaking and smudging the sad words, with the tears of
plastic flora.
I feel angry and sad since today I have been reminded of
what I have forgotten I’ve lost.
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