Just Sitting
I take a deep breath of the fresh-baked summer breeze. I close my eyes tightly, afraid that this sun, this place, this hill, this sun-baked granite stone, will dissolve into some dream that’s ended by the dead tone of my alarm. So I smile. And I can’t help but open my eyes again.
Who am I to refuse reality?
I sit on a hilltop. Spread out like blue and green corduroy quilt squares, the fields of corn and soybeans ripple lazily under the hot wind. Behind me, on the eastern horizon, lies a small stream which slithers under a bridge before heading north. In the distance, aspen leaves suspended over the slow-flowing water whisper secrets. I face the West.
That’s where my home is, far away, in the mountains.
The sun lays warm rays on my upturned face. The sky is a tranquil blue, with white cloud streaks like claw marks scratched into its surface. My eyes float down to the road and follow it as it trails from the bridge, up and around the gated hill, stretching its dusty fingers to the West. It’s so quiet here, not a living soul breathes this taciturn air, no one else would dare to walk amidst the tombstones.
I love the cemetery. Yes, I know it’s strange.
I watch the rush-hour traffic of bees on lilies, listen to the occasional blare of an opinionated bird, and try to hold as still as possible when a fly hesitates on my bare arm. My skin must seem like a soft, sandy shoreline with grassy hair; the fly like a brilliantly blue-green fish, beached there. His wings open and close, like a gapping mouth, groping for the blue, watery sky. He flips off my arm.
Flying must be a lot like swimming.
I often bring thick books to read or warn notebooks for my poetry. And even though I carry them with me, I usually let the time drift by, just thinking. Unknowingly I find myself dissecting my thoughts, picking them up and pulling the petals off, one by one. Soon nothing but the slender stem is left, and its sweet simplicity comforts my burning desire to understand.
Unanswered questions taste unbearably sour.
Everyday the cemetery’s a little bit different. Some days the grass hasn’t been mowed and the dappled clover makes the ground look like a green kneading board that’s been covered in flour. Some days it’s cloudy and windy and cold. On days like today it’s like being slowly roasted; sitting in the sun on the stone bench. Other days it’s raining and the clouds drape the sky in wash-rag grey. Sometimes I watch the sunset and imagine that it’s the end of some great novel, where everything comes together and the reader sighs contentedly.
Only once did I get up early enough to watch the sun rise.
But there are some things that are always the same. There’s always the well with the water that tastes like rust. There’s always Theodore and his black-granite bench. There’s always this flagless flagpole that clanks about whenever the wind blows. There’s always this creaky gate that welcomes me in, like the chimes at small gift shops. But most of all, there’s always this feeling.
Everything feels alive in the cemetery… perhaps because everything’s expected to be dead.
Once, I met a friend here. We sat on Theodore’s bench and talked about everything we could think of; weather, vacations, our homes, our families, where we wanted to be buried, the flies that landed on our hands, life. We just sat there… I guess it was one of those lofty, lazy dream days. The memories of which are like little sparkles, blurred by time and repetitious reminiscence.
We’re only allotted a few perfect moments in our lives.
Being here makes me realize how important it is to step back and take deep breaths. I wrote once that to properly appreciate life, we have to be able to accept death, and understand that it can be beautiful. I suppose that’s what makes the cemetery so peaceful for me; being alive, and just thinking, just sitting.
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