El Carmelo Cemetery, Pacific Grove, California
There’s nothing unusual about the morning sun cracking over the horizon. Long veins of yellow streak across the cemetery yard as a family of deer enjoy an early morning breakfast of moist green grass. Of course, for them, the graves carry no meaning, which adds the right amount of innocent joy to the scene. I always find myself staring at the headstone of eight-year-old Alice, dead over 100 years, and someone still tends to her small grave.
In a calm kind of panic, I begin to pull deep breaths into my lungs. The impulse seems to come from somewhere else, drawing in the cool ocean air again and again. Why this, why now? I stop my bike in the middle of the road. The graves stretch out across the lawn, trimmed nice and pretty, the older headstones covered in moss. The caretaker putters along with his mower, and crows call in the distance, answering each other in an ancient language known only to them.
Are there any words for me today? What do I want from the ones in the ground? The thought that permeates the air is, “It’s all right. Everything’s fine,” and the idea filters through me with calm clarity. The headstones seem to be standing guard. Surely, tears soaked the sod for these countless funerals, but now the field of graves feels peaceful.