Sunbathing in a Cemetery
This past May, I made the journey to Arlington National Cemetery. I was wandering its immense fields of the dead, trying desperately to locate the final resting place of someone gone too soon. In the oppressive beltway humidity, as the sun threatened to burn my painfully fair skin to a bright tomato red, something caught my eye.
I saw a woman in her late 50's or 60's, with a vaguely bohemian or "biker-hippie" look. She had a blanket laid on a grave and was lying on her back on top of it. A raw, cynical thought flashed through my mind, a defensive deflection from the emotion the scene stirred: "Look at this bitch sunbathing in a cemetery."
I wondered whose grave it was that compelled her to be so physically close: a child, a sibling, a parent, a partner, or a friend. I remembered my own reasons for being there that day. Perhaps, I thought, she was simply trying to feel closer to the deceased—as if they weren't completely gone. That single act made me wonder what it would be like to have someone care enough to lay down on your grave and remember you when you're gone. What a precious connection any of us would be blessed to have.
As I walked, I began to notice small rocks set on top of the gravestones. I've had a fixation with interesting stones since I was a child, and seeing them now, I had a momentary, childish thought: perhaps they were some message from unseen forces guiding me to the site I sought. I passed more graves, each one with its small, silent offering.
I became aware that I was almost there; down a row of white gravestones, it couldn't be much further. Then, I was standing there, in front of her grave, and it felt like all the oxygen in my body was sucked out of every cell. It took me a moment to process. "Has it really been six years? Was she really in there?", I thought.
The journey had ended. I left my trident on her grave and took my leave, thinking about all the lives lost. Life goes on. But if you're lucky, you have someone to come lay down on your grave for a little bit and remember you.