The Cemetery Man

It was a glaringly bright and bitterly cold December morning and the old man standing at the cemetery gate was in need of a shave. He was bundled up against the cold in a heavy coat with a fur trimmed hood but his shoes were stuffed with newspaper and he only had one glove. He shifted from one foot to the other in slow, heavy motions and awkwardly tried to peer though the bars of the ironwork, squinting at the headstones and against the sun. As I watched, he pulled open the gate, stepped inside and began shuffling down the center path between the graves. He took his time, stopping to read the names and inscriptions as he went, head bowed and hands deep in his pockets.

He came to a small rise where the path divided and for several seconds he stood, looking right and then left, as if trying to decide which way to go. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small slip of paper, read it and replaced it, then set down the left path with certainty. At the next intersection he turned right without hesitation, seeming now to remember his way and walking with his head up, his footsteps quicker and sharper. He stopped at a grave with a small marker and knelt in the fallen leaves, brushing them away with his one gloved hand, then tentatively reached out and touched the marker with one finger - it was a gesture of tenderness, uncertain and shy but gentle. Then he sat back on his heels, hands clasped in his lap and I could see his lips moving. He stayed that way for some time then got to his feet a little shakily.

Feeling like an intruder, I backed away and from a distance watched him return the way he had come, pausing on the sidewalk as he closed the gate behind him. My impulse was to go to the grave and discover the name upon it but it seemed wrong, an invasion of his privacy somehow, and I left with my curiosity aroused but not satisfied. It had been, my instincts told me, a private few moments and it was better left that way. I remembered sitting at my great grandmother's grave long after her death and feeling a little lost and a little sad, but also free to talk to her honestly and without reservation, knowing that she would hear and not judge, knowing that any secret I shared would be safely kept. It was like a confession without penance and I left with a lighter heart, better for having told someone, even someone long dead. Talking to the dead, my daddy once told me, is a little like talking to God.

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