Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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I drove by the cemetery this afternoon. I noticed how the rain had flooded a few of the gravesites. It was just a tiny corner of the cemetery. I looked across the street and thought it sort of funny how at the bottom of the hill there had been no flooding at all, but in this one corner, on much higher ground right near the street, there was a little pond with three gravestones peaking out of the muddy water. I pictured the ground underneath. I mean, not just the grass, but everything under the grass. Morbid thought process, I know. But I pictured the mud between the grass and the coffin and hoped that the family purchased a leak proof one. I noticed that the graves around these few had been recently visited. The colors of the flowers weren’t wind-blown and faded. It just seemed obvious that people took advantage of the first spring-like day of the year and replaced the old decorations with new. Little did they know, I guess, that Mother Nature had been tricking us and she had more snow and rain ready to bring us all down again. And those poor plots that had been flooded. I felt bad for the dead. For dead that I didn’t even know. I just felt bad. I felt bad for the person that could pick this day, of all days, to visit the gravesite. Then, I felt bad for the plot and its owner who might not even have anyone to come visit them. It was a mess of a reeling mind, but something about the whole situation just made me sad.
I thought of Kearstin. She used to be one of my best friends and both of her parents were buried here. I remember both parents well and remember the days that they passed even better. Her mother had lung cancer and passed away the day before Christmas Eve. I was with Kearstin that night when they got the phone call. We were in 6th grade. Her dad passed much more suddenly…a heart attack. I found out the next morning and while I spent my entire day at school with the rest of the circle of girls, Kearstin spent her day planning a funeral. At 17, she planned her father’s funeral. Two days before spring break.
I looked back at where her father was buried and remembered the day. To this day, every funeral I have gone to, it’s rained. I remembered my heels kept sinking in the mud. We all struggled making it across the yard, but all of us girls shared an umbrella. We were all a family and it was like we’d lost a father, too. We stood under the tarp with the rest of the family. That’s how you knew we were all sisters. The people that stand under the tarp—I mean, it’s like the VIP section at funerals. You don’t just get randoms under there. And we were under there. We were asked to stand there behind her. And I think we cried harder than she did. Now, I wonder how often he gets visited. Every spring break? I know I think of him when that time comes around. I ditched my trip to the Gulf Shore that year to stay home. We all spent every day and every night together. We became something even greater than family that year. It was the best spring break I’ve ever had.
I don’t talk to her much anymore. From spending every weekend with her in our elementary and junior high days to rarely ever speaking with her now, as strange as it may sound, she is the epitome of the person I wish I could be. This year, over her spring break, the same week that her father died four years ago, she’s going to Cairo as part of Habitat for Humanity. There is nobody else in this world that I admire more than her. Funny thing—she has no idea.
I drove by the cemetery this afternoon. I noticed how the rain had flooded a few of the gravesites. It was just a tiny corner of the cemetery. I looked across the street and thought it sort of funny how at the bottom of the hill there had been no flooding at all, but in this one corner, on much higher ground right near the street, there was a little pond with three gravestones peaking out of the muddy water. I pictured the ground underneath. I mean, not just the grass, but everything under the grass. Morbid thought process, I know. But I pictured the mud between the grass and the coffin and hoped that the family purchased a leak proof one. I noticed that the graves around these few had been recently visited. The colors of the flowers weren’t wind-blown and faded. It just seemed obvious that people took advantage of the first spring-like day of the year and replaced the old decorations with new. Little did they know, I guess, that Mother Nature had been tricking us and she had more snow and rain ready to bring us all down again. And those poor plots that had been flooded. I felt bad for the dead. For dead that I didn’t even know. I just felt bad. I felt bad for the person that could pick this day, of all days, to visit the gravesite. Then, I felt bad for the plot and its owner who might not even have anyone to come visit them. It was a mess of a reeling mind, but something about the whole situation just made me sad.
I thought of Kearstin. She used to be one of my best friends and both of her parents were buried here. I remember both parents well and remember the days that they passed even better. Her mother had lung cancer and passed away the day before Christmas Eve. I was with Kearstin that night when they got the phone call. We were in 6th grade. Her dad passed much more suddenly…a heart attack. I found out the next morning and while I spent my entire day at school with the rest of the circle of girls, Kearstin spent her day planning a funeral. At 17, she planned her father’s funeral. Two days before spring break.
I looked back at where her father was buried and remembered the day. To this day, every funeral I have gone to, it’s rained. I remembered my heels kept sinking in the mud. We all struggled making it across the yard, but all of us girls shared an umbrella. We were all a family and it was like we’d lost a father, too. We stood under the tarp with the rest of the family. That’s how you knew we were all sisters. The people that stand under the tarp—I mean, it’s like the VIP section at funerals. You don’t just get randoms under there. And we were under there. We were asked to stand there behind her. And I think we cried harder than she did. Now, I wonder how often he gets visited. Every spring break? I know I think of him when that time comes around. I ditched my trip to the Gulf Shore that year to stay home. We all spent every day and every night together. We became something even greater than family that year. It was the best spring break I’ve ever had.
I don’t talk to her much anymore. From spending every weekend with her in our elementary and junior high days to rarely ever speaking with her now, as strange as it may sound, she is the epitome of the person I wish I could be. This year, over her spring break, the same week that her father died four years ago, she’s going to Cairo as part of Habitat for Humanity. There is nobody else in this world that I admire more than her. Funny thing—she has no idea.
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