Silent Tears

My favorite place is one that most people choose to avoid; Huntimer Cemetery is surrounded by tall, dark pines and outlined by a weather worn, chain-link fence. Flowers wilt in the chill of the night, left by those who are still here on earth to mourn. Head stones stand in rows in various shapes and sizes as representations of those people who have passed. I walk quietly up the path. I am hidden by the fullness of the cottonwood trees that line the inside of the fence. Just beyond the black iron gate, a ceramic Jesus Christ hangs on a cement cross with a guardian evergreen on each side. He is perched to watch over his flock.

The last time I made this walk it was raining. The perfectly kept grass was wet and slippery. Rain drops soaked my hair and gently caressed my face. Little water droplets collected on the metal gate, making it feel icy cold. The rain rolled down Christ’s cheeks like tear drops that day.

Today, as I make my way past Christ and enter the cemetery drive, I can see the worn footpaths zig zagging around the burial sites. The paths show the careful steps taken to avoid stepping on the earth overlaying the people. I follow this path also. Something just doesn’t feel right about standing on a person, even when that person is covered by a six-foot layer of dirt.

The oldest headstones are almost unreadable. These graves are from the small pox era; almost all of them say “In Memory of Our Infant Son/Daughter.” About six stones north of the crucifix, a woman’s heart-breaking story is unraveled in a set of seven monuments. The names and dates carved in the stone are hints left behind of tragic loss. Lucille and her husband had five children, none of whom survived past the age of three. Her husband passed away ten years after the last child. Her plot remains empty.

I am aware that the rain is slowly soaking into my clothes. But a little rain is not enough to drive me away. I have only just begun my walk through.

The next row over are the graves of nearly every member of Huntimer, a small town that existed on this spot before World War II. Most of the names engraved in the stones are those of people who still live around here, but the spellings of the names evolved sometime between the 1920s and the 1930s. The names became “Americanized” as families started spelling their surnames like they sounded.

The rain has stopped and the clouds are beginning to clear. The sun is sinking fast and the stones are beginning to glow as they reflect the orange sunset. The glossy finishes on the headstones catch the sun and glow so bright I can see them from my bedroom window every evening. Though my thoughts float there, I am not yet ready to return home, so I carry on with my passage.

The next few rows are the average cemetery lanes. Those who were seventy to one hundred when they passed away do not have as much wonder attached to their final resting places as those who died at my age.

I am drawn to the dramas of life. The last row contains a pair of teenagers and a mother. They are not related, but their stories provide a reality check. The two teens have some sort of “Don’t Drink and Drive” paraphernalia strewn about their graves. Their lives stopped at the age I am now. I wonder, “If I died right now, how would people remember me?” One has “An Angel Taken Too Soon” etched in the granite. The mother is significant because her daughters are friends of mine. Cancer took her quickly. Too quickly

I always leave this place in a deep state of mind. I do not know if it is because I am standing over mortality or if it is the thoughts of sadness and goodbyes, but just being in the St. Joseph’s Cemetery makes me take a step back and examine my life. Maybe I am soaking in the experience of life that came to its final resting place like the rain soaks through my clothing to reach the skin beneath. No matter what, each time I go to this place I always learn something new about myself.

Sherry Burnham